
Class J£^m£. 
Book . \A)6 



c o 10 y z- 



GEMS 



OF 



EPISTOLARY 
CORRESPONDENCE; 



SELECTED 



FROM THE BEST ENGLISH AUTHORS, 



FROM THE 



TIME OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY TO THE PRESENT DAY. 



BY 



ROBERT, ARIS WILLMOTT, Esq. 

TRINITY COILEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 



Letters, such as are written from wise men, are, of all the words of men, in my 
judgment, the best. Lord Bacon. 



LONDON : 
HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 

1846. 



PR 



3 4-3 



c^1 



TO 

THE REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, M.A., 

THE POET OP THE HEART, 

THIS VOLUME, 

WITH SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND REGARD, 

IS INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE EDITOR. 



CONTENTS. 



Letter 
I. 
II. 
III. 
IV. 
V. 
VI. 
VII. 

VII. 

VIII. 
IX. 

f x. 

XI. 
XII. 

XIII. 
XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 
XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 



Anne Bullen to Henry VIII. .... 33 

Sir Philip Sidney to his Brother. — Advice . 36 

Lord Brooke to a Lady upon some conjugal Infelicities 4 1 

Donne to a Friend. — Tenderness to his Wife . 50 
To Sir H.(enry) G.(oodyere). — Letters . .51 

To the Same. — Allusions to Himself . 52 
Sir Walter Raleigh to his Wife, written the night be- 
fore he expected to be beheaded at Winchester, 1603 55 
Ben Jonson to the- Two Universities. — A Defence of 

Poetry . . 58 

Lord Bacon, after his disgrace, to James the First 63 
James Howell to the Countess of Sutherland. — The 

Assassination of Buckingham .... 68 
Bishop Hall to Lord Denny. — An Account of his Man- 
ner of Life . ...••'» . . ... 71 
Oliver Cromwell to Col. Hacker. — Religious Soldiers 75 
Jeremy Taylor to John Evelyn. — Consoling him for 

the loss of his Children 76 

Cowley to Mr. S. L. — The Danger of Procrastination 79 
Lord Rochester to the Honourable Henry Saville. — 

Contradicting the report of his Death . . 83 

Dry den to Dennis. — His own Character . . 84 

Sir John Stickling to a Nobleman. — Compliments 88 
Sir George Etheredge to the Duke of Buckingham. — 

History of a German Widow .... 89 
Sir William Temple to Lord Lisle. — Miscellaneous 

Remarks 96 

Lady Russell to the Bishop of Salisbury. — Loss of her 

Sister 99 

Sir Matthew Hale to his Children. — Directions for the 

Employment of their Time . . . .101 

Algernon Sidney to Mr. B. Furley. — His Self-Devotion 108 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Letter Page. 

XXII. Richard Baxter to the Rev. Richard Allestree. — 

Some passages in his own history . . 110 

-£. XXIII. Sir Richard Steele to his Wife. — Her beauty and 

affection eulogised . ... 115 

XXIV. Evelyn to Wotton.— Notices of the Life of the Hon. 

Robert Boyle . . . . . 118 

XXV. John Norris to Mrs. Eliz. Cabel and Mrs. Mary 

Prowse. — A Dedication . . . . 126 

XXVI. Daniel De Foe to his Son-in-law, Mr. Baker.— 

Pathetic complaints of the cruelty of his son 127 

XXVII. Dean Berkeley to Pope. — Description of the Island 

oflnarime 130 

XXVIII. Gay to . A Thunder Storm in Autumn.— 

The Village Lovers 134 

XXIX. Gay to Swift. — With a Postscript by Pope, respect- 

ing his Infirmities, &c. . . . . 136 

XXX. Swift to Gay.— A Portrait .... 140 
^_ . XXXI. Swift to Lord Bolingbroke. — Ambitious Hopes; 

Anecdote of his Early Days . . . 143 

XXXII. Pope to Wycherley. — Of Dryden, his Character, and 

Poetical Successors . . . . 146 

XXXIII. To Steele, with Reflections upon Early Death, and 

Allusions to his own Infirmities . . . 148 

XXXIV. To a Friend. — Upon the Vanity of Human Learn- 

ing and Ambition . . . . . 150 

XXXV. To Swift.— On his departure from Twickenham 152 

XXXVI. The Same to the Same.— Gulliver ; the Beggars' 

Opera ; Old Age of his Mother ; The Dunciad . 154 
XXXVII. Lord Bolingbroke to Swift.— The Tranquillity of a 
Philosopher ; with a Postscript by Pope respect- 
ing his Mother 157 

XXXVIII. The Same to the Same.— A beautiful Picture of 

Contemplative Life . . . . . 159 
XXXIX. Warburton to Hurd.— A Voyage Round the Park 162 
XL. Lady Montagu to her Sister. — A Visit to the Vizier's 

Harem ; The beautiful Fatima . . . 167 
XLI. Lord Hervey to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. — 

Company at Bath . . . . . 173 

XLII. Melmoth to a Friend. — Meditations in a Garden 

upon a Spring Morning . . . . 174 

XLIII. Matthew Prior to Swift.— A Letter upon Nothing 177 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Letter Page. 

"- '■ — < XLIV. Gray to Walpole. — How he spends his time in the 

country ; Southern, the Dramatic Poet 179 

XLV. Gray to Wharton. — Account of the Trials of Lords 

Kilmarnock, Cromartie, and Balmerino . 181 

— _ XL VI. Gray to Nicholls. — Netley Abbey and Southampton. 

—Beautiful Sunset 186 

XL VII. Shenstone to Mr Jago. — Rural Occupations . 189 
XL VIII. The Countess of Hertford, afterwards Duchess of 
Somerset, to Lady Luxborough. — Spring- weather. 
—Thomson's Castle of Indolence. — Shenstone's 

School-mistress 191 

XLIX. Mrs. Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. — A Let- 
ter from the Shades ..... 193 
L. The Poet Thomson to Mr. Paterson.— -News from 

Home . 196 

LI. Goldsmith to Daniel Hodson, Esq. at Lishoy, near 
Ballymahon, Ireland.— His Situation in London ; 
affecting remembrance of his native Village 200 
LII. The Same to his Brother, the Rev. Henry Gold- 
smith. — Beginning Life at thirty-one ; The effects 
of sorrow upon his disposition . . . 204 
^ LIII. Johnson to Boswell. — The proper object of Letter- 
writing 209 

LIV. To Mrs. Thrale.— Old Friends ... 212 

LV. Horace "Walpole to George Montagu. — A Visit to 

Vauxhall . . 214 

LVI. The Same to the Same. — The Funeral of George the 

Second 218 

LVII. Sterne to Garrick. — Urging his return to the Stage 220 
LVIII. The Earl of Chatham to his Nephew, Thomas Pitt. 
— How to conduct himself at Cambridge. — Re- 
ligion the perfection and glory of human nature 222 
LIX. Lord Chesterfield to his Son. — How to form a Latin 
Style. — Unchangeableness of Truth. — Berkeley's 
Theory of Matter ; Letter- writing . . 226 

-_ - LX. To the Same. — Good-breeding ; a Courtier's Advice 

how to rise in the world .... 233 
LXI. Lowth to Warburton. — A Vindication of his Conduct 236 
LXII. Beattie to the Hon. Charles Boyd. — His own cha- 
racter delineated. — Pope .... 242 
LXIII. Hannah More to Mrs. Gwatkin. — Picture of Hamp- 



CONTENTS. 



Letter Page, 

ton Court.— Pope's Villa at Twickenham. — Gar- 
rick's House . . . , . . . . 246 
LXIV. Miss Sally More to the Family at Home.— A Visit 

to Dr. Johnson 251 

LXV. Hannah More to her Sister. — Lord Spencer's Seat 

at Wimbledon. — Anecdote of Lord Cobham 252 

LXVI. Hannah More to her Sister. — The Author of Leo- 

nidas and Lord Littelton. — Horace Walpole 255 

«L, LXVII. Junius to the Duke of Bedford. — Indignant con- 
demnation of his conduct .... 258 

LXVIII. Edmund Burke to the Painter Barry. — Affectionate 

interest in his welfare .... 266 

LXIX. Burke to Robertson. — Acknowledging the Present 

of his History of America . . . . 271 

LXX. Sir William Jones to the Countess of Spencer. — A 

Romance about Milton .... 274 

LXXL The Historian Gibbon to Mrs. Porter ; giving a de- 
scription of his manner of Life at Lausanne 278 
LXXII. The Poet Burns to his Father.— Melancholy fore- 
bodings . . . . . . 283 

LXXIII. The same to Mrs. Dunlop. — His situation and 

prospects 285 

LXXIV. Arbuthnot to Pope.— A Farewell ... 288 
LXXV. James Barry to Burke. — A Sketch of his Journey 

from Paris to Turin . . . . . 290 
LXXVI. Cowper to the Rev. John Newton. — An Epistle in 

Rhyme ..... 294 

LXXVII. The Same to the Rev. William Unwin. — His 

Amusements 296 

LXXVIII. The Same to the Same.— Writing upon anything 298 
LXXIX. The Same to Lady Hesketh. — Delightful anticipa- 
tions of her Visit. — Picture of his Green-house . 300 
LXXX. William Wilberforce to his Sister.— A Sabbath in 

the Country 303 

LXXXI. Lord Edward Fitzgerald to his Mother. — A Night 

Scene in an American Forest . . . 306 
LXXXII. Charles James Fox to Gilbert Wakefield.— The 

character of Cicero's Eloquence. — Genius of Ovid 310 
LXXXIII. The Same to Mr. Grey.— The Note of the Nightin- 
gale 313 



CONTENTS. IX 

Letter Page 

LXXXIV. Bishop Home" to a Lady, [uporfthe sudden death of 

her Father 314 

LXXXV. Dr. Parr to Mr. Thomas Moore.— The Boyhood of 

Sheridan 317 

LXXXVI. The Poet Crabbe to Burke.— -An Appeal to his 

Generosity and Compassion . . . 320 

LXXXVII. Lord Byron to his Mother.— Turkish Scenery ; Visit 

to Ali Pacha . . . . . . 324 

LXXXVIII. Nessy Heywood to her Brother. — Fervent Assur- 
ances of Love and Confidence . . . 330 
LXXXIX. Bishop Heber to his Mother.— A Picture of Moscow 334 
XC. Sir James Mackintosh to Robert Hall, upon his 

recovery from severe indisposition . . 340 

XCI. Lord Collingwood to his Daughter. — Suggestions 

respecting her Education .... 345 

XCII. The Same to Lady Collingwood. — Cherished hopes 

of returning to his Family . . . . 348 

XCIII. Robert Hall to Mr. Hewitt Fysh, upon the death of 

his Wife 350 

XCIV. Mrs. Inchbald to Mrs. Phillips. — Anecdote of 

Madame de Stael . . . . . 353 

XCV. Lord Exmouth to his Brother. — Battle of Algiers 355 
XCVI. Charles Lamb to Mr. Manning. — A Journey to the 
Lakes ; Mountain Scenery at Night ; Coleridge's 
House . . . . . . . 358 

XCYII. The Same to the Same. — Christmas in China; amus- 
ing Stories about his Friends . . . 362 

XCVIII. William Beckford to . Rambles in the 

Valley of Colares ; Elysian Scenery of Portugal ; 
Song of a female Peasant ; Rustic hospitality 365 

XCIX. Sir Walter Scott to the Countess Purgstall. — Some 

Account of Himself 371 

C. Sir Stamford Raffles to the Duchess of Somerset. — 

Cannibalism of the Battas .... 375 

CI. Southey to Sir Egerton Brydges. —Affecting History 

of the Poet Bampfylde . . . . 381 

— i~ CII. "The Same to the Same. — Beautiful Criticisms upon 

Old Authors. — Character of Leicester . * . 386 
CIII. Sir Thomas to Lady Munro.— Delightful Picture of 

Childhood 392 

a 3 



CONTENTS. 

Letter Page. 

CIV. The Same to the Same. — Affecting recollections of 

domestic Happiness. — A solitary Home . 394 

CV. The Same to the Same. — Thoughts in a deserted 

Garden . 395 

CVI. "William Wordsworth to Sir Walter Scott, upon 

the genius of Dryden .... 398 

CVII. Sir Humphry Davy to Mr. Poole, describing his 
situation at Ravenna. — Historical associations of 

the place 403 

CVIII. The Duke of Wellington, (then the Hon. A. Wel- 
lesley) to Lieutenant-Colonel Close. — Defeat of an 
Indian Freebooter •. . . . . 407 
CIX. The Same to Lady Sarah Napier, informing her of a 

wound received by her Son . . . 409 

CX. The Same to Lord Somers. — Upon a similar occasion 410 
CXI. The Same to Samuel Whitbread, Esq., acknowledg- 
ing the retractation of Calumnies . . 411 
CXLT. The same to a Correspondent, dissuading him from 

attempting to describe the Battle of Waterloo, and » 
containing an outline of the principal circum- 
stances in it 412 

CXHI. The Same to Lord Beresford, upon the same sub- 
ject. — Striking Picture of the Battle . 414 
CXIV. S. T. Coleridge to Mr. Alsop.-— Affecting account of 

his Hopes, Prospects, and Literary Projects 415 

*4~ CXV. "Walter Savage Landor to Dr. Parr. — Indignant 

Contempt of Criticism .... 427 

CXVI. Mrs. Hemans to a Friend. — A Visit to the Poet 

Wordsworth 430 

CXVII. The Last Letter of L. E. L. - An African Home 432 



Additional Notes 



435 



ERRATA. 

Page 130, for keep, read kiss ;— for Bathurste, read Bathurst. 

— 155, for lenient acts, read lenient arts. 

— 196, for Eleonoa, read Eleonora, 

— 272 for is, read are. 



A PKEFACE, 

CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 



A history of letters would be a picture of the heart, under 
all its various aspects of hope and fear, generosity and envy, 
love and hatred, ambition and contentment. The picture would 
have many shadows, yet brightened and relieved by the gleams 
which the familiar confessions of friendship shed over the sternest 
physiognomy. We forget the intemperate zeal of Calvin in 
the gentler tones of his domestic intercourse. Cowper has left 
behind him the most interesting of autobiographies without the 
name ; and a memoir of Petrarch might be composed from his 
poetry and his epistles. It is not from a single sketch, however, 
that our judgment should be formed ; but only, since every letter 
is a portrait, more hastily or more elaborately designed, from a 
careful examination and comparison of many. The letters of 
Erasmus paint not the man alone, but the century ; and the 
student of classical literature is ignorant of the mind of Scaliger 
and Casaubon, who has not seen it reflected in their correspon- 
dence *. 

To trace the gradual progress of our language from its birth 
out of the Anglo-Saxon, through the numerous stages of its puri- 
fication and embellishment by Chaucer, until its final completion 
in the golden age of Elizabethan literature, is the office of the 
historian. Nor is the task an easy or a satisfactory one. From 
the conquest until the reign of Edward III., French continued to 
be the dialect of fashion ; but letters were written in Latin, until 

* If the reader would comprehend the style of communication between the 
scholars of an elder age, let him refer to Joseph Scaliger's letter to Casaubon 
upon his edition of Polybius, Epistolar. lib. ii., Epist. cxix., and to Epist. 
cxx. ; when he wrote it, he was recovering from indisposition. " Quid ad te 
scribam, equidem nescio. Scribere tamen volui, quamvis nullo argumento. 
Defunctus plane sum languore, qui diu me obsessum tenuit neque adhuc 
crura suum officium faciunt. Hoc heri in deambulatione pomeridiana ex- 
pertus sum. Et fortasse merit setatis eXarrcofia, quamvis, defatigatio a 
morbo." See also Epist. cclxx., lib. 3.— Joanni Casellio. 



12 A PREFACE, 

the sudden introduction of French toward the close of the thir- 
teenth century *. Before the fifteenth century, letters were usually 
transcribed upon vellum ; and specimens of the French and Latin 
letters of the beginning of the fourteenth century are contained in 
the Cottonian volumes t. But the investigation of this subject, 
in itself so curious and interesting, demands more space than a 
preface enables me to bestow^. One collection, however, of 
English letters may be noticed, both on account of their individual 
and historical interest. 

"The Paston Letters," says Mr. Hallam, "are an important 
testimony to the progressive condition of society ; and come in as 
a precious link in the chain of the moral history of England, 
which they alone in this period supply. They stand, indeed, 
singly, as far as I know, in Europe ; fcr though it is highly pro- 
bable, that in the Archives of Italian families, if not in France or 
Germany, a series of merely private letters, equally ancient, may 
be concealed, I do not recollect that any have been published. 
They are all written in the reigns of Henry VI. and Edward IV., 
except a few that extend as far as Henry VII., by different mem- 
bers of a wealthy and respectable, but not noble family ; and are, 
therefore, pictures of the life of the English gentry in that age§." 
The aid afforded to the historian by these letters, in fixing circum- 
stances of literary interest, is frequent and important. The style 
of the correspondence is, for the period, remarkable; and, as Mr. 
Hallam observes, much less quaint and formal than the laboured 

* Hallam. 

t Sir Henry Ellis. 

X There are collections extant of letters which throw full light on the 
state of manners in France, Italy, and England, in the eleventh and twelfth 
centuries. For example, we have the letters of two bishops of Chartres, in 
the eleventh century, Bishop Fulbert, near the beginning, and Bishop Ivo, 
near the close of it; and subsequently those of Stephen, bishop of Tournay. 
Forjtaly we have Gerbert's Letters(Pope Silvester II.), at the very beginning 
of the eleventh (or rather the close of the tenth century) and then Car- 
dinal Damiani's. The history of England and France is so mixed up, that 
what relates to one, relates to the other. We have Anselm's three books of 
letters, which give us Normandy and England perfectly in the time of Wil- 
liam the Conqueror, and William Bufus ; John of Salisbury, who continues 
it at a later period, the reign of Henry II., which is most fully and perfectly 
illustrated by the most entertaining of all these letter-writers, Peter of Blois, 
Archdeacon of London. — Quarterly Review, No. CXVL, Ancient Collec- 
tions of Private Letters. 

§ Introduction to the Literature of Europe, vol. i. p. 228. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 13 

imitations of modern novelists. One of the earliest examples " of 
female penmanship," is the letter from Lady Pelham to her 
husband, in 1399*. 

The letters composing the present volume, have been chiefly 
selected either for their inherent beaut} 7- , or for the sake of the 
persons, and the subjects to which they relate. Illustrations 
of character and of intellect have been preferred to illustrations 
of history, or of manners ; and the sentiments of the philoso- 
pher and the poet, to those of the statesman or the politician. 
Few names will be found which have not become familiar to our 
lips as household words. The opening letter, from Anne Bullen 
(or Boleyn) to Henry the Eighth, will be remembered by every 
reader of Addison, or of Hume. To establish the authenticity of 
so affecting a document would be a very interesting achievement 
of antiquarian industry. Sir Henry Ellis considers it a genuine 
production, although the original no longer exists ; and his belief 
is grounded upon the hand- writing of the copy, preserved among 
Lord Cromwell's papers, which he assigns without hesitation to 
the time of Henry the Eighth. The suspicion of the letter having 

* It was communicated to Mr Hallam by the Rev. Joseph Hunter, who 
had met with it in an old edition of Collins' Peerage. Collins copied it, Mr. 
Hallam observes, from the Archives of the Newcastle family. 

My dear Lord, 

I recommend me to your high lordship, with heart and body and all 
my poor might, and with all this I thank you as my dear lord — dearest and 
best-beloved of all earthly lords, say for me, and thank you my dear 
lord with all this, that I say before of your comfortable letter that ye sent 
me from Pontefract, that come to me on Mary Magdalene Day ; for, by my 
troth, I was never so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong 
enough with the grace of God for to keep you from the malice of your ene- 
mies. And, dear lord, if it like to your high lordship, that as soon as ye 
might that I might hear of your gracious speed; which as God Almighty 
continue to increase. And, my dear lord, if it like you to know of my fare, I 
am here by laid in manner of a siege with the county of Sussex, Surrey, and 
a great parcel of Kent, so that I may nought out no none victuals get me, but 
with much hard. Wherefore my dear, if it like you by the advice of your 
wise counsel for to get remedy of the salvation of your castle, and withstand 
the malice of the shires aforesaid ; and also that ye be fully informed of their 
great malice workers in these shires, which that haves so despitefully wrought 
to you, and to your castle, to your men, and to your tenants, for this country 
have yai (sic) wasted for a great while. Farewell my dear lord, the Holy 
Trinity you keep from your enemies, and ever send me good tidings of you. 
Written at Pevensey, in the castle, on St. Jacob's day last past, 

By your own poor, 

To my true Lord. J. Pelham. 



14 A PREFACE, 

been prepared for Anne Bullen by any friend, seems to be refuted 
by Sir William Kyngston's testimony to the strictness of her 
imprisonment*. 

In turning over the early pages of our literary history, the eye 
rests upon two names which we are accustomed to associate with 
Sir Philip Sidney,— Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt. They 
both perished in the flower of their age ; Surrey in his thirtieth, 
and Wyatt in his thirty-ninth year ; but not before they had con- 
tributed to the decoration of our poetry, and the modulation of our 
language. They seem to have anticipated the learning and the 
virtues of Sidney ; to have lived with equal dignity, and to have 
died with equal respect. Sir Thomas Wyatt had an only son, to 
whom he addressed the following letter; and when we contrast 
its uncompromising spirit of Christian purity with the degrading 
counsels of that refined courtier, whom Cowper branded as the 
Petronius of his day, we may well look back with reverence to 
those gray Fathers of our literature. 

" Inasmuch as now ye are come to some years of understanding, 
and that you should gather within yourself some fame of Honesty, 
I thought that I should not lose my labour wholly if now I did 
something advertise you to take the sure foundations and stablished 
opinions that leadeth to Honesty. 

" And here, I call not Honesty that, men commonly call Ho- 
nesty, as reputation for riches, for authority, or some like thing ; but 
that Honesty, that I dare well say your grandfather (whose soul 
God pardon), had rather left to me than all the lands he did leave 
me ; that was, Wisdom, Gentleness, Soberness, desire to do Good, 
Friendship to get the love of many, and Truth above all the rest. 
A great part to have all these things, is to desire to have them. 
And although glory and honest name are not the very ends 
wherefore these things are to be followed, yet surely they must 
needs follow them as light followeth fire, though it were kindled 
for warmth. Out of these things the chiefest and infallible ground 
is the dread and reverence of God, whereupon shall ensue the 
eschewing of the contraries of these said virtues ; that is to say, 
ignorance, unkindness, rashness, desire of harm, unquiet enmity, 
hatred, many and crafty falsehoods, the very root of all shame and 
dishonesty. I say, the only dread and reverence of God, that seeth 
all things, is the defence of the creeping in of all these mischiefs 
into you. And for my part, although I do well say there is no 

* Letters Illustrative of English History, vol. ii., p. 53. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 15 

man that would wish his son better than I ; yet on my faith, I 
had rather have you lifeless, than subject to these vices. 

" Think and imagine always that you are in presence of some 
honest men that you know ; as Sir John Russell your father-in- 
law, your uncle Parson, or some other such, and ye shall, if at any 
time ye find a pleasure in naughty touches, remember what shame 
it were before these men to do naughtily. And sure this imagina- 
tion shall cause you to remember that the pleasure of a naughty 
deed is soon past, and the rebuke, shame, and the note thereof 
shall remain ever. Then, if these things ye take for vain imagi- 
nations, yet remember that it is certain, and no imagination, that 
ye are always in the presence and sight of God ; and though you 
see Him not, so much is the reverence the more to be had, for 
that He seeth, and is not seen. 

" Men punish with shame as greatest punishment on earth ; yea, 
greater than death ; but his punishment is first, the withdrawing 
of his favour and grace, and in leaving his hand to rule the stern, 
to let the ship run without guide to its own destruction ; and 
suffereth so the man that he forsaketh to run headlong, as subject 
to all mishaps, and at last, with shameful end, to everlasting shame 
and death. Ye may see continual examples both of one sort, and 
of the other • and the better, if ye mark them well that yourself 
are come of ; and consider well your good grandfather, what things 
there were in him, and his end. And they that knew him, noted 
him thus : first, and chiefly, to have a great reverence of God, and 
good opinion of godly things. Next, that there was no man more 
pitiful ; no man more true of his word ; no man faster to his 
friends ; no man diligenter or more circumspect, which thing, both 
the kings his masters noted in him greatly. And if these things, and 
especially the grace of God, that the fear of God always kept with 
him, had not been, the chances of this troublesome world that he 
was in, had long ago overwhelmed him. This preserved him in 
prison from the hands of the tyrant" 55 , that could find in his heart 
to see him racked ; from two years and more prisonment in 
Scotland in irons and stocks ; from the danger of sudden changes 
and commotions divers, till that well-beloved of many, hated of 
none, in his fair age, and good reputation, godly and Christianly 
he went to Him that loved him, for that he always had Him in 
reverence. 

" And of myself, I may be a near example unto you of my folly 

* Richard the Third. 



16 A PREFACE, 

and nothingness, that hath, as I well observed, brought me into a 
thousand dangers and hazards, enmities, hatreds, prisonments, 
despites, and indignations ; but that God hath of his goodness 
chastised me, and not cast me clean out of his favour; which thing 
I can impute to nothing but the goodness of my good father, that, 
I dare well say purchased with continual request of God, his grace 
towards me more than I regarded, or considered myself; and a 
little part to the small fear I had of God in the most of my rage, 
and the little delight that I had in mischief. You, therefore, if ye 
be sure, and have God in your sleeve to call you to his grace at 
last, venture hardily by mine example upon naughty unthriftiness, 
in trust of his goodness ; and besides the shame, I dare lay ten to 
one ye shall perish in the adventure : for trust me, that my wish 
or desire of God for you shall not stand you in as much effect, as I 
think my father's did for me. We are not all accepted of Him. 

" Begin therefore betimes. Make God and goodness your foun- 
dations. Make your examples of wise and honest men : shoot at 
that mark : be no mocker : mocks follow them that delight 
therein. He shall be sure of shame that feeleth no grief in other 
men's shames. Have your friends in a reverence, and think un- 
kindness to be the greatest offence, and least punished among men ; 
but so much the more to be dreaded, for God is Justiser upon that 
alone. Love well and agree with your wife ; for where is noise 
and debate in the house, there is unquiet dwelling : and much 
more when it is in one bed. Frame well yourself to love and rule 
well and honestly your wife as your fellow, and she shall love and 
reverence you as her head. Such as you are unto her, such shall 
she be unto you. Obey and reverence your father-in-law, as you 
would me ; and remember that long life followeth them that 
reverence their fathers and elders ; and the blessing of God, for 
good agreement between the wife and husband, is fruit of many 
children. 

" Read oft this my letter, and it shall be as though I had often 
written to you ; and think that I have herein printed a fatherly 
affection to you. If I may see that I have not lost my pain, mine 
shall be the contentation, and yours the profit ; and upon condition 
that you follow my advertisement, I send you God's blessing and 
mine, and as well to come to honesty, as to increase of years." 

1 he vein of pure and reflective sentiments, which is so apparent 
in this beautiful and earnest letter, pervades, also, Sir Philip Sid- 
ney's exhortations to his brother ; and may be discovered in the 
harmonious strains — alas, too few !-^of the melancholy Cowley. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 17 

Of this admirable writer and amiable man, the memorials are 
slight and unsatisfactory*. But every fragment of his prose is 
valuable ; and even the dust is full of gold. With this feeling, I 
may introduce a short letter to Evelyn, which might have been 
inserted in the volume. It is an acknowledgment of a present 
of seeds and other things, from that early friend of English horti- 
culture. 

Sir, Barn Elms, March 23, 1663. 

There is nothing more pleasant than to see kindness in a 
person for whom we have great esteem and respect ; no, not the 
sight of your garden in May, or even the having such an one, which 
makes me more obliged to return you my most humble thanks for 
the testimonies I have lately received of you, both by your letter 
and your presents. I have already sowed such of your seeds as I 
thought most proper upon a hot-bed ; but cannot find in all my 
books a catalogue of these plants which require that culture, nor 
of such as must be set in pots ; which defects, and all others, I 
hope shortly to see supplied, as I hope shortly to see your work of 
horticulture finished and published ; and long to be in all things 
your disciple, as I am in all things now, 

Sir, your most humble and obedient servant, 

A. Cowley. 

This little note, evidently written with haste, is not without 
the characteristic touches of Cowley. In no writer shall we find 
more frequent or more beautiful examples of that curious 
felicity of sentiment and expression -which has always been re- 
garded as the greatest charm of composition. His essays are con- 
sidered, with justice, to be models of easy and vigorous prose; and 
the preface to his poems is embellished by those Graces which 
are never found in the company of art. Alluding to a book of 
worthless verses, published under his name, he says : — " It was 
vain for me that I avoided censure by the concealment of my own 
-writings, if my reputation could be thus executed in effigy?' Of the 
poetical mind, he observes, — " It must, like the halcyon, have fair 
weather to breed in." He compares poetry in an American forest, 
to Donne's sun-dial in a grave ; and remarks, in reference to the 
classic mythology, — " I do not at all wonder that the old poets 
made such rich crops out of these grounds : the heart of the soil 
was not then wrought out with continual tillage. But what can 

* See Peck, and the Miscellanea Aulica. 



18 A PREFACE, 

we expect now, who come a-gleaning, not after the first reapers, 
but after the very beggars'?" Dr. J. Wharton used to say, that 
the three finest prefaces in the world, were those of Thuanus to 
his History, of Casaubon to Polybius*, and of Calvin to his Insti- 
tutes. Cowley's preface to his poems may be included in the 
list ; although it might not have drawn the annual tears of Lord 
Mansfield, like the dedication of De Thou. 

Of the letters df Howell, the familiar and eccentric friend of 
Ben Jonson, a more copious selection may probably be offered at 
a future period. In 1737, they had reached a tenth edition. His 
early correspondence from the continent, beginning in 1617, is very 
curious and interesting ; and his home-intelligence is often amus- 
ing, as it presents sketches, slight, indeed, of fashion, politics, and 
literature ; whether we hear of Sir John Elliott being interrupted 
in a vehement attack upon the Duke of Buckingham by the Usher 
of the Black Rod, knocking at the door of the House t; or of 
the queen, breaking the glass windows, and tearing her hair, 
through anger at the sudden dismissal of her French attendants J. 

The character of Lord Bolingbroke has been drawn by his 
contemporary and friend, Lord Chesterfield, to whom he made the 
celebrated observation, which a Christian philosopher might have 
uttered with delight. He was, at the time of Chesterfield's visit, 
suffering from the cancerous humour in the face, of which he 
died ; and, while bidding him farewell, for a season, he added,— 
tC God, who placed me here, will do what he pleases with me, and 
he knows best what to do. May he bless you." Such a noble 
expression of resignation and faith, was not to be expected from 
one whose pen, in the words of the poet Young, has been more 
destructive to its master, than the sword of Cato. Chesterfield said 
that his penetration approached to intuition, and that he adorned 
every topic with a splendour of eloquence that flowed from 
him without study or exertion ; and that even his familiar con- 
versation might have been committed to the press without correc- 

* More properly speaking, the dedication to Henry the Fourth, prefixed 
to the Commentaries in 1609; it is, indeed, a splendid dissertation upon his- 
tory, inflamed by eloquence, and nourished and enriched with the most 
abundant and most costly erudition. The conclusion rises into a strain of 
glowing adulation. " Sis semper domi fortunatus, semper in publicum 
felix, semper augustus, semper concordiae suasor idem et vindex; orbis 
denique christiani semper sis arbiter." The preface is more rapid and scho- 
lastic ; but rendered interesting by the writer's allusions to his domestic 
calamities. 

t To his uncle, Aug. 6, 1626. $ To his brother, March 15, 1626. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 19 

tion. Pope pronounced a similar eulogy. His exhibitions in 
Parliament live only in tradition ; but Canning would have pre- 
ferred a single speech, to the choicest treasure of antiquity. His 
letters are unequalled by any in our language, for sustained 
majesty of diction, and melody of composition. He has not, 
indeed, the captivating simplicity of Cowley, nor the nervous 
freedom of Dryden ; but in fervour of sentiment, and richness of 
illustration, he surpasses both. His glimpses of classical literature 
are beautifully introduced ; without being a poet, he seems always 
to linger by the Bowers of Fancy; without being a philosopher, 
his wisdom appears to glow with the imagination of Plato. His 
imagery is selected and disposed with infinite art, and the harmony 
of his metaphors is preserved with unusual success. The reflection 
of his thoughts is clear and unruffled. Writing to Swift, July 28, 
1721, he says, — "Anni praedantur euntes; time will lop off my 
luxuriant branches; perhaps it will be so. But I have put the 
pruning-hook into a hand which works hard to leave the other as 
little to do of that kind as may be. Some superfluous twigs are 
every day cut; and as they lessen in number, the bough which 
bears the golden fruit of friendship, shoots, swells, and spreads." 
Pope said of Bolingbroke, not without truth, that whether he 
wrote to a statesman or an emperor, he would intuitively seize 
upon the most material circumstance, set it in the most favourable 
light, and render it the most beneficial to his purpose. One 
quality alone he wanted, and that was — sincerity. 

From Bolingbroke to Pope, the transition is easy and natural. 
Cowper expressed the most vehement dislike of his letters, which 
offended him by the artificial allurements of their style. Letters, 
indeed, in the common sense of the term, they are not ; but rather 
essays upon particular subjects, studded with ingenious thoughts, 
and occasionally sparkling with Horatian irony. His pen appears 
to move by the impulse of his fancy; and like Voiture in his 
prose, and Cowley in his poetry, he continually starts out of his 
path in pursuit of some fantastic image, or unexpected witticism. 
But these were Dalilahs, to which a greater than Pope was not 
unwilling to sacrifice the vigour and beauty of his intellect. In 
later years, when, in his own words, he had ceased to write like a 
wit, and had discovered that no muse is needed by him " who dic- 
tates from the heart," he produced several letters of touching- 
sweetness, dignity, and grace. He had already, in his poetry, 
stooped to truth, and put undying life into his song, by the moral 
which it conveyed. His letters to Swift breathe a peculiar tender- 



20 



A PREFACE, 



ness and pathos ; and no person has spoken, with a deeper interest, of 
the gradual encroachments of age upon human enjoyments. "The 
most melancholy effect of years," he told the Dean, " is that you 
mention, the catalogue of those we loved and have lost perpetually 
increasing. You ask me if I have got a supply of new friends to 
make up for those who are gone? I think that impossible ; for 
not our friends only, hut so much of ourselves is gone by the mere 
flux and course of years, that, were the same friends restored to 
us, we could not be restored to ourselves to enjoy them. But as, 
when the continual washing of a river takes away our flowers and 
plants, it throws weeds and sedges, and in the course of time brings 
us something as it deprives us of a great deal ; and instead of leav- 
ing us what we cultivated, and expected to flourish and adorn us, 
gives us only what is of some little use by accident : thus, I have 
acquired a few chance acquaintances of young men, who look 
rather to the past age than to the present, and therefore the future 
may have some hopes of them. I find my heart hardened and 
blunted to new impressions ; it will scarce receive or retain affec- 
tions of yesterday, and those friends who have been dead these 
twenty years, are more present to me now, than those I see daily." 

This is a beautiful passage, full of wisdom, affection and 
truth. 

If we turn from Pope to Swift, we seem to be transported, as it 
were, from the quiet gardens and grotto at Twickenham, into the 
busy hum and confusion of a city. All the passions of life, fierce 
indignation, overbearing ambition, high self-confidence, vivid con- 
tempt, chase each other over the page. No mask ever conceals 
the biographer of Captain Gulliver. He is what he seems. 
Cowper preferred his letters to any in our language, until the 
appearance of Gray's. The briefest and most accurate description 
of their style may be given in a couplet of Boileau, — 
Ce que Ton concoit s'exprime clairement 
Et les mots, pour le dire, arrivent aisement. 
Dryden told him, that he never would be a poet ; and his rhymes 
confirm the prophecy. But he had a fertile invention, although 
never variegated by the colours of fancy. He is one of the simplest 
of our writers, not because he is less metaphorical, but because his 
images are unusually lucid. His compositions have the transparency, 
without the beauty, of the greatest of Grecian philosophers. 

In the midst of his power and politics, says Johnson, he kept 
a journal of his visits, and his interviews with ministers, and 
quarrels with his servant; and transmitted it regularly to Mrs. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 21 

Dingley and Mrs. Johnson, to whom he knew that whatever hefell 
him was interesting, and no accounts could he too minute. In this 
epistolary diary, he appears, as every one sighs that Sprat would 
not allow Cowley to appear, in his dressing gown and slippers. 

If a man wakes him every day hy crying savoys, he wishes 
his largest cabbage was sticking in his throat. If he has choco- 
late twice in a morning for his visitors, one of whom is Addison, 
he candidly confesses, "I don't like it." If it rains all day, 
" his pockets feel it." If he goes to an auction and purchases a 
reputed Titian for 21. 4?., he makes no scruple of communicating 
his hopes and intentions to his correspondent. " If he be cheated, 
he'll part with it to Lord Mashani ; if it please him, he'll keep it 
himself." No incident in his life, at home or abroad, is omitted. 
If he finds the Lord Treasurer sipping his broth, or playing with 
an orange, by fits, he tells of it ; if Lady Orkney makes him 
a writing-table of her own contrivance, and a night-gown, he com- 
municates the circumstance, adding that he is writing in bed 
while his fire burns up. If the Duke of Ormond gives him a 
pound of snuff, he wishes Mrs. Dingley had a part of it, although it 
had been purchased at the expense of a quarter of an hour of his 
Grace's politics. Occasionally a little episode interrupts the calen- 
dar of his hourly occupations, and is always related with inimi- 
table spirit. A miserable poet, for example, sends him, by way of 
bribe, some of the finest wild-fowl he ever saw. He eats the pre- 
sent, and directs his servant " never to let up the poet when he 
comes. The rogue," says he, " should have kept the wings, at 
least, for his Muse." 

These diurnal trifles, as Johnson calls them, have another 
attraction in the glimpses they afford of persons to whom we 
are accustomed to look with admiration, or interest. Johnson 
appears not to have appreciated this feature of the journal; the 
notices it contains are, indeed, slight, but they are often ex- 
pressive, as when he remarks, after prevailing on Bolingbroke to 
invite Addison to dinner on Good Friday, — " I suppose we shall 
be mighty mannerly." Upon another occasion, happening to meet 
Addison and " Pastoral Phillips," on the Mall, he takes a turn 
with them, not without observing that, "they both looked terribly 
dry and cold." Of Addison's tragedy he has an amusing anec- 
dote. " I was this morning, at ten, at the rehearsal of Mr. Addison's 
play, called Cato, which is to be acted on Friday. There were not 
above half a score of us to see it. We stood on the stage, and it 
was foolish enough to see the actors prompted every moment, and 



22 A PREFACE, 

the poet directing them ; and the drab, that acts Cato's daughter, 
out in the midst of a passionate part, and then calling out,— 
'What's next*?'" 

When Johnson, in the summer of 1782, was accompanying 
Hannah More through Oxford, he insisted upon conducting her oyer 
his own college, Pembroke. " This was my room ; this Shenstone's. 
In short," said he, "we were a nest of singing-birds." The Doctor's 
companion was not likely to manifest much interest respecting a 
writer, whose posthumous correspondence she had told Mr. Bos- 
cawen was " the worst collection ever published with real names." 
The poet had formed a very different opinion of it. " I look upon 
my letters," he said, as some of my chef d'ceuvres ; they are the 
history of my mind for these twenty years past." But what a 
history ! Sometimes he announces that he has deferred the pur- 
chase of his favourite waistcoat until the spring ; at another time 
he fills a page with perplexing doubts concerning the management 
of his snuff-box ; or warms into eloquence respecting the embellish- 
ments of a ceiling. He makes no secret of his vanity +, but rather 
cherishes it as an amiable quality. His life was an unhappy one ; 
Gray said that he passed his days in hopping round the Leasowes,' 
and was miserable except in the company of visitors. His letters 
abound in complaints of loneliness and desertion ; when his " visi- 
tants fail him," and his verdure is faded, he has nothing to do but 
"go to sleep for the winter." His house is sometimes so forsaken, 
that the grass grows over his threshold. He has acknowledged 
this weakness of character in a touching manner. " Though I first 
embellished my farm, with an eye to the satisfaction I should 
derive from its beauty, I am now grown dependant on the friends 
it brings me, for the principal enjoyment it affords. I am pleased 
to find them pleased, and enjoy its beauties by reflection^:." Ac- 
cordingly his thoughts are always wandering about the Leasowes. 
He finds nothing more interesting to communicate to a friend, than 
the intelligence that it was a tempestuous day when Lord Stam- 
ford called to see his walks. The monotony of his existence 
seems to have depressed his spirits. " I pass too much of that sort 
of time," he told a friend, " wherein I am neither well nor ill." 

* To Mrs. Dingley, March 21, 1712-13. 

t He tells his friend Mr. Whistler, "Now I talk of vanity, I beseech you 
never check yourself in your letters. I don't purpose it j and I think it 
makes as pretty a figure in the letters of a man of taste, as it does in the 
embroidery of a beau !" 
October, 1755. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 23 

To Lady Luxborough he wrote, " I lead the unhappy life of see- 
ing nothing in the creation so idle as myself." Upon another 
occasion he confessed that he was " now and then impelled by the 
social passion to sit half an hour in his kitchen." He read little, 
and while his melancholy increased every day, philosophy fur- 
nished him with no stone to fling at the giant. He has very 
happily described the lonely and saddening sensations which the 
even tenor of his life suggested :— 

Tedious again to curse the drizzling day, 
Again to trace the wintry tract of snow; 

Or, sooth'd by vernal airs, again survey 

The self-same hawthorns bud, and cowslips blow*. 

If we contrast the situations of three of the most interesting 
Recluses in our poetical history, we find Cowper enjoying at 
Weston all the happiness of which his mind, so often clouded by 
religious delusion, was susceptible; Cowley, who retired into the 
country in search of the golden age, and the shepherds of Sir 
Philip Sidney, soon acknowledging that he had not found Arcadia 
in Chertsey ; and Shenstone, interrupting his song, if a dark day 
shut out the sunshine from his cage. Yet he struggled against 
his fate, and wrote sweet and tender verses to show how happy 
he was. Spenser might have commended the harmony of the 
inscription at the Leasowes : — 

O you that bathe in courtly blysse, 

Or toyle in fortune's giddy sphere, 
Do not too rashly deeme amysse 

Of him that bydes contented here. 
Nor yet disdeigne the russet stoale, 

Which o'er each carelesse lymb he flings ; 
Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle, 
In whych he quaffs the limpid springs. 

* If Shenstone should ever meet with an editor, he may illustrate this 
stanza. " I remember dining," says Mr. Wilberforce, "when I was a young 
man, with the Duke of Queensbury, at his Richmond villa. The party was 
very small and select. Pitt, Lord and Lady Chatham, the Duchess of Gor- 
don, and George Selwyn, (who lived for society, and continued in it, till he 
looked really like the wax-work figure of a corpse), were among the guests. 
We dined early, that some of the party might be able to attend the Opera. 
The dinner was sumptuous, the views from the villa quite enchanting, and 
the Thames in all its glory ; but the Duke looked on with indifference. 
What is there, he said, to make so much of in the Thames — I am quite tired 
of it;— there it goes, flow, flow, flow; always the same." — Life by his Sons, 
vol. hi. p. 417. 



24 A PREFACE, 

Forgive him, if at eve or dawne, 

Devoide of worldly carke he straye ; 
Or all beside some flowery lawne, 

He waste his inoffensive daye. 
So may he pardonne pain and strife, 

If such in courtly e haunt he see ; 
For faults there beene in busye life, 

From which these peaceful glennes are free. 

It was Shenstone's misfortune to be surrounded by the lowest 
retainers of Dodsley ; persons who were illustrious for an epigram 
without point, or an elegy without meaning. In such an atmo- 
sphere nothing could flourish; with the exception of Percy, he 
appears not to have had a single correspondent of taste or learning. 
Lady Hertford was a pleasant writer, but she praised Hervey's 
Meditations and Thomson's poetry in the same page. It seems 
impossible to reconcile the vivacity, acuteness, and good sense of 
Shenstone's detached thoughts, with the general tone and spirit of 
his letters*, except upon the supposition that his fancy was be- 
numbed by the dulness of his friends. Walpole said, that he 
passed his life in laborious efforts to write a perfect song, without 
ever succeeding in the attempt. 

Gray, though he laughed at the sorrows of Shenstone, was 
equally unhappy in the old courts of Pembroke. But his melan- 
choly wears a serener aspect ; and the shadows that seem to hang 
about him, only lend a more mellow and solemn beauty to his 
character. 

The prose remains of Gray consist of letters and fragmentary 
notes and dissertations, upon classical and general literature. Of the 
proposed History of Poetry, which he resigned to Warton,the obser- 
vations on Lydgate furnish a very interesting specimen. His letters 
have the fault which he imputed to Pope's ; they want the delightful 
candour and fluency of Cowper, and even the humour seems to 
have been prepared from a note-book. They contain, however, 

* Several instances will probably occur to the memory of the reader. He 
says, very ingeniously, that " The making presents to a lady one addresses, is 
like throwing armour into an enemy's camp, with a resolution to recover it." 
And of the love of popularity, that, "it seems little else than the love of 
being beloved." It may be observed here, that the probable origin of the 
beautiful epitaph on Miss Dolman, — " Quanto minus est cum reliquis 
versari, quam tui meminisse," has been discovered in a sonnet of Petrarch.— 
See an Essay on the Life and Character of Petrarch, 1810, p. 15. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 25 

many beautiful criticisms, many acute remarks, and many descrip- 
tions of natural scenery, which a painter might study, and which 
a poet alone could have conceived. A rural sketch looks green in 
his language ; and the reader, converted into a spectator, contem- 
plates with delight the vernal freshness, and the silvery hues, of 
these Georgics in Prose. 

If we compare the letters of Gray with those of Goldsmith, we 
shall find more of the scholar in the first, more of the man in the 
second ; while Gray presents his thoughts in all the charms of 
poetical decoration, Goldsmith pours out his with no other 
light about them than the sunshine of his own bosom, and 
seems to be witty, or sad, at the impulse of the moment ; to 
sparkle, or to be overcast, according to the state of the atmosphere 
in which he dwelt. There is more speculation in the one ; more 
truth in the other. Gray had read of the world ; — Goldsmith had 
seen it. 

Gray was the riper scholar ; but Goldsmith had the more versa- 
tile intellect. Boswell, indeed, has told us, that no deep root could 
be struck in a soil, thin as it was fertile ; yet that soil has produced 
a tale which every one reads, — poems, to which every heart re- 
sponds, — comedies, at which Laughter still holds both his sides, — 
essays, alive with humour and fancy, — and histories, which can 
still hold children from their play, though they may no longer 
draw old men from the chimney-corner. Taste in writing, he has 
defined to consist of the greatest combination of beauty and utility, 
admissible without counteracting each other. He practised his 
own definition ; gathering the flowers that grew in his path, but 
never wandering in search of others of richer lustre, he attained a 
style, which, in the opinion of his most celebrated contemporary 
and friend, was copious without exuberance, exact without con- 
straint, and easy without weakness. 

Although I have introduced the letter of Junius to the Duke 
of Bedford, I shall not be expected to identify this Man in the 
Iron Mask. Some information respecting him may be found in 
Mr. Barker's Inquiry respecting Sir Philip Francis. The involun- 
tary claimants to the authorship of the letters have been numerous, 
and various. Walpole, who has himself been named, assigned them 
to single-speech Hamilton ; Wyndham to Gibbon ; and many to 
Burke. Parr expressed his confident belief to Lord Chedworth, that 
Junius was a brother of Dr. Lloyd, dean of Worcester; but Home 
Tooke, whose chances of discovery were certainly not inconsiderable, 
and who, in his dispute with Junius, had affirmed his acquaint- 

b 



26 A PREFACB. 

ance with his person, confessed to Mr. Green of Ipswich, " that he 
never could discover who he was." The conjecture of Pinkerton, 
that Junius is the Latin name of Dr. Young, was ingenious, 
and has that probability to recommend it which arises out of coin- 
cidence of style and sentiment. Of all the eminent individuals 
who have been brought into the controversy, not one bears so 
remarkable a resemblance to Junius as the author of the Niglit 
Thoughts. The letters, which Coleridge called political poetry 
without metre, continually remind us of the brilliant epigrams of 
the Universal Passion; and if a page, from the prose works of 
Young, were printed by the side of a page from Junius, the like- 
ness would be pronounced remarkable. The great weapon of both 
was antithesis; and when that spear broke, they were at the 
mercy of any antagonist *. 

Horace Walpole has been honoured with the title of the father 
of the first romance, and the last tragedy, in our language. " He 
is," said Lord Byron, "ultimus Romanorum." The last of the 
Boswells would have been a juster appellation. The vivacity of 
his temper, the diligence of his research, and the dramatic art with 
which he grouped and arranged his anecdotes, make him the prince 
of letter- writers, as they have made Johnson's friend the prince of 
biographers. But let Walpole's claims be acknowledged. He pos- 
sessed intellectual powers beyond the reach of the biographer ; and 
the Mysterious Mother awakens our admiration of his talent, while it 
excites our contempt for his heart. He was one of the first English- 
men who elevated letter-writing to a place in literature. He speaks 
of the rapidity with which he wrote ; but Lord Dovor has shown 
that he collected materials with care, and that his letters, like those 
of Gray, were elaborately composed. He himself confessed thai 
they deserved to have the name of Walpoliana. Their principal 
charm resides in the grace of the style, and the poignancy of the 
stories. His perception of poetical merit was not lively, and his 
criticism is frequently incorrect and malignant. In his sight, 
Akenside is a tame genius, who writes odest; and he would rather 

* The Letters of Junius, Stat nominis umbra. Junius is the umbra, the 
translation of Young only ; nor can the motto refer to the State, then in an 
acme of splendor.— Note to Walpoliana, v, i. p. 69. The secret is now un- 
derstood to be in the Grenville family. 

t But Walpole, like Byron, who imitated his manner, often sacrificed 
truth to smartness. " Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination," he said, upon 
another occasion, " attracted much notice on the first appearance, from the 
elegance of the language, and the warm colouring of the descriptions. But 
the Platonic fanaticism of the foundation injured the general beauty of the 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 27 

have been the author of Lee's plays than of Thomson's Seasons. 
He coupled Garth with Boileau, and the Dispensary with the Rape 
of the Lock. His estimate of theatrical talent was equally opposed 
to the general voice. He saw nothing in Garrick but the art of 
mimicry. But these defects, and many others, are forgotten in 
the brilliancy of his descriptions, and in amusement at the sting 
which he always inserts in an anecdote. To quote instances, 
would be to copy his letters. Every one must remember his 
account of the earthquake, 1750, when on a sudden he felt the 
bolster lift up his head : — and of the ladies who had earthquake 
gowns made to sit out in during the night : — and of the effect of the 
visitation in raising the price of old china ; and of " Dick Leveson 
and Mr. Rigby," who, after supping and staying late at Bedford 
Row, amused themselves by knocking at several houses, and crying- 
out in a watchman's voice, "Past four o'clock, and a dreadful 
earthquake." He has, very prettily, called grace in writing, a per- 
fume, which will always preserve a work from decay; and his own 
letters illustrate his observation. 

Passing over many intermediate names of minor interest, we 
come to one of the most eminent in our history, and one of the 
dearest to our hearts. 

The letters of Burke, though invaluable as compositions, have 
slight claims to notice as models of epistolary style; his object 
being less to amuse than to inform, they often run too much into 
disquisition, and are deficient in the vivacity that entered so 
largely into his conversation. Although written with ease and 
elegance, in idiomatic English, and, for the most part, in his plain- 
est manner, the profound observations, the lucid arrangement, the 
completeness of his views, and the sustained vigour and exact pro- 
priety of his expressions, give them often the appearance of elabo- 
rate essays. But, like the letters of his friend Johnson, we may 
believe them to have flowed from a running pen. The effusions, 
which were natural to the lofty intelligence of Burke, would dege- 
nerate in weaker minds into pedantry and affectation. It will be 
safer to admire, than to imitate him. The element of his imagina- 
tion was grandeur ; but he frequently moves in the softer atmo- 
sphere of grace. He could satirise the Duke of Bedford, with the 

edifice. Plato is, indeed, the philosopher of imagination; but is not this 
saying that he is no philosopher at all ? I have been told that Rolt, who 
afterwards wrote many books, was in Dublin when that poem appeared, and 
actually passed a whole year there, very comfortably, by passing for the 
author."— Walpoliana, vol i., pp. 134, 135. 

b 2 



28 



A PREFACE. 



fierceness of Milton ; and commend the genius of Reynolds, with 
the elegance of Addison. To a stature of intellect, that might 
have awed even the giants of an elder age, he united a wonderful 
flexibility and ease of movement. In the senate, or the drawing- 
room, he was equally admirable. Johnson declared, that it would 
be impossible for a stranger to stand with him out of the rain for 
a few minutes, without pronouncing him a remarkable man. 
Every branch of literature and of science contributed to his trea- 
sures. Poussin, returning from his evening walk with a miscella- 
neous collection of stones and flowers, to be employed in future 
pictures, offers a parallel. Osborn, who knew Lord Bacon, says, 
that he has heard him entertain a country lord with hawks and 
dogs ; and at another time " out-cant a London chirurgeon." 
Burke possessed a mine of equal richness and variety, but in 
the plastic art of accommodating his learning to his company, he 
was excelled by Mr. Canning. 

No reputation ever crumbled away more quickly than Mrs. 
Montagu's; it might be said to have died with her voice. Her 
life was a prolonged triumph. She gained the suffrages of her 
most distinguished contemporaries ; and we learn, from an anec- 
dote related by Miss Reynolds, that her virtues obtained even a 
warmer tribute of admiration than her talents. " This brings to 
my remembrance the unparalleled eulogium which the late Lord 
Bath made on a lady he was intimately acquainted with, in speak- 
ing of her to Sir Joshua Reynolds. His lordship said, that he 
did not believe that there ever was a more perfect human being- 
created, or ever could be created, than Mrs. Montagu. I give the 
very words I heard from Sir Joshua's mouth ; from whom, also, I 
heard that he repeated them to Mr. Burke, observing, that Lord 
Bath could not have said more. " And I do not think that he 
said too much," was Mr. Burke's reply. The publication of Mrs. 
Montagu's letters has not revived her fame. They are, indeed, 
frequently vivacious, clever, and amusing, but fatigue by the 
writer's perpetual efforts to be witty. The Epistle from the 
Shades was written in youth, and sparkles with agreeable humour 
and mirth. Her conversation* surpassed her compositions; but 



* Johnson said, " That lady exerts more mind in conversation than any 
person I ever met with ; sir, she displays such ratiocination, and such radia- 
tion of intellectual excellence, as are amazing." Mrs. Montagu had pro- 
pitiated the Doctor, by commending his genius and talents in her Essay on 
Shahspeare ; but his opinion of her seems to have been expressed with some 
insincerity. 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 29 

the Essay on Shakspeare*, notwithstanding its inherent defect of a 
superficial acquaintance with the subject, will not be forgotten. 
The language, indeed, is frequently inflated; but some of the 
thoughts are beautiful, and new. Speaking of Shakspeare's in- 
ducement to take the subjects of his dramas from the history and 
tradition of recent transactions, particularly the wars of the houses 
of York and Lancaster, she observes, " There was not a family so 
low that had not had some of its branches torn off in the storms of 
these intestine commotions; nor a valley so happily retired, that 
at some time the foot of hostile paces had not bruised its flowrets." 
And again, alluding to the influence of fashion upon the language 
of the same poet, she says, with greater beauty and truth, " An 
obscurity of expression was thought the veil of wisdom and know^ 
ledge ; and that mist, common to the Morn and Eve of literature, 
which, in fact, proves that it is not at its high meridian, was 
affectedly thrown over the writings, and even the conversation, of 
the learned." 

Bishop Heber mentions a Persian proverb, that a letter is half 
a meeting; and when we hear Cowper inviting his cousin to 
Olney, or playfully gossiping to his friend, Mr. Unwin, we per- 
ceive the truth of the saying. Hayley thought that the charm of 
his letters might be referred to their delicacy, which has been 
defined to mean the union of the graceful and the beautiful with 
the just and the good. The letters of Cowper are his auto- 
biography ; they reflect his features, under every varying shade of 
expression, with a clearness and natural truth, of which Racine's 
letters to his son, and Madame de Sevigne's correspondence with 
her daughter, had furnished the only previous examples. The 
French mother, and the English poet, wrote from the fulness of 
their hearts; and Madame Grignan and Mr. Unwin reaped the 
advantage. To write letters was the delight of Sevigne; and 
Cowper has confessed to his dearest friend, "When I write, as 
I write to you, not about business, nor on any subject that ap- 
proaches to that description, I mean much less my correspondent's 
amusement, which my modesty will not always permit me to 
hope for, than my own." The resemblance between Sevigne and 
Cowper was, indeed, remarkable; not only in the simplicity and 



* Essay on Shakspeare, p. 65, fourth edition, ed. 1777. Id. p. 282. 
The folly of the coldly " correct and classically dull," she illustrates by an 
apt and lively metaphor. " Poets who suppose their dramas must be excellent 
because they are regulated by Aristotle's clock."— Introduction. 



30 A PREFACE. 

grace of style, which seem to have come to them as naturally as 
numbers to Pope, — for Sevigne wrote with elegance at twenty, and 
the earliest epistle of Cowper is not less flowing than the last,— - 
but in the art possessed by both, in a very rare degree, of com- 
municating the commonest occurrence with an air of engaging 
sweetness and humour. Voltaire pronounced Madame de Sevigne 
unrivalled pour conter des bagatelles avec grace; and Horace might 
have heard in the poet's summer-house at Olney, echoes of that 
urbane pleasantry, which had long been familiar to the Sabine 
Farm. 

A collection of ingenious sentiments has been made from the 
letters of Sevigne, and the poetry of Cowper's prose would still 
better reward the industry of an editor. Writing to Charlotte 
Smith, he says, " I was much struck by an expression in your 
letter to Hayley, where you say that you will endeavour to take 
an interest in green leaves again. This seems like the sound of 
my own voice reflected to me from a distance, I have so often had 
the same thought and desire. A day scarcely passes, at this season 
of the year, when I do not contemplate the trees, so soon to be 
stript, and say, 'Perhaps I shall never see you clothed again**.' " 
The "reflection of the voice" may have been suggested to him un- 
consciously by a poem of the " ingenious Cowley," whom, in youth, 
he delighted to read, and longed to have known. But while 
possessing abundantly that seductive negligence of style, which 
D'Alembert commended in the compositions of Sevigne, Cowper 
often ventured upon hazardous phrases with a happy audacity un- 
known to his female rival. Expressing to Unwin his indignation 
at Johnson's treatment of Milton, he exclaims, " Oh ! that I 
could thresh his old jacket, till I made his pension jingle in his 
pocket !" Madame de Sevigne had more anecdotes to tell than 
Cowper, but never relates them in a livelier manner. The reader 
will recollect his story of Sam Cox, the counsel, who, having been 
observed wandering along the sea-shore, in deep abstraction, was 
asked the subject of his meditation. "I was wondering," he said, 
" how such an infinite, and almost unwieldy element, should pro- 
duce a sprat !" 

Of one of the most copious of English letter- writers, I have 
been unable to introduce any specimen in the present volume. 

Miss Seward's censure of Hervey for dressing up in his Medita- 
tions trite ideas " in the flowery nothingness of external declama- 

* To Unwin, Nov. 26, 1787. t October 26. 1793, 



CRITICAL AND ANECDOTICAL. 31 

tion," may not unfairly be transferred to her own prose*. Mr. 
Wilberforce, who met her in the summer of 1796, at Buxton, has 
the following entry in his Diary : — " She seems to have cultivated 
the acquaintance of all persons of any note, — literary, social, or of 
any other kind; when separated from them, a correspondence 
sprang up ; hence her 144 quarto volumes of letters, between 1784 
and 1810. She really had talents and reading; but how much 
more usefully and honourably would she have been employed, 
had she, like Hannah More, been teaching the poor, or still more 
in writing such books as Hannah More." Miss Seward's elocution 
was very beautiful. Sir Walter Scott says, that in " reciting or 
reading, her eyes, which were auburn, appeared to become darker, 
and, as it were, to flash fire!" Mrs. Siddons entertained the 
same admiration of her varying and animated countenance. Miss 
Seward attributes a similar charm to the " burning eyes" of her 
friend Hayley. Her literary performances, with one or two 
exceptions, are neither useful nor ornamental. The pupil of 
Darwin was not likely to entertain a love of the unaffected graces 
of composition. The Task was overshadowed by the Botanic 
Garden. With less wit, she had more poetry than Miss More ; 
and a ray of genuine imagination often breaks through her redun- 
dant phraseology. A sonnet upon a December Morning possesses 
great merit. 

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 

Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume, 
And cheerful tapers shine around the room, 
Through misty windows bend my musing sight, 
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, 
With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom, 
That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume, 
Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
By indistinctness given. Then to decree 

The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
To friendship or the muse, or seek with glee 

Wisdom's rich page! Oh, hours more worth than gold, ; 
By whose bless'd use we lengthen life; and, free 
From drear decays of age, outlive the old. 

The letters of Hannah More, written during her earlier visits 
to London, abound with recollections of that distinguished circle 

* See the Autobiography of Sir Egerton Brydges, vol. i. p. 57. 



32 A PREFACE. 

of literature and art, respecting whom time seems only to quicken 
our curiosity. She lived in familiar intercourse, with Johnson, 
with Burke, and with Reynolds, having recommended herself to 
their favour by the vivacity and enthusiasm of her disposition. 
These were her most celebrated friends; but she had others 
who connected that age of authorship with the preceding, and 
carried her into immediate contact with Pope, and Bolingbroke, 
and Swift. We see her by the side of Mrs. Delaney, who over- 
flowed with anecdotes of the Tatler, and to whom the Spectator* 
was a modern book ; reading the manuscript letters of the Dean ; 
or chatting with the charming Duchess of Portland, " the noble, 
lovely, little Peggy " of Prior ; or dining with Mrs, Dash wood, 
the Delia of the elegiac Hammond. 

In concluding a discursive preface, something should be said of 
a writer, whose eloquence, and varied information, will never be 
forgotten by those who have had the honour and the privilege of 
his acquaintance and his correspondence, — Sir James Mackintosh. 
Mr. Wilberforce, who was always delighted with his conversation, 
considered him an extraordinary man. His public life afforded 
no adequate testimony to the originality of his talents, or the 
extent of his attainments. He imparted to philosophy the charm 
of imagination, and to logic the interest of romance. Parr said 
that, like Burke, his taste in morals, and his taste in literature, 
were equally delicate. The correspondence of these eminent per- 
sons is probably open to the same objection. It has a studied and 
didactic air, and seems to be the offspring of the intellect, more 
than of the heart. But a lofty and animating strain of thought 
characterizes both. The letters of Mackintosh to Robert Hall are 
full of interest. During the presence of the calamity, which, for 
a season, overshadowed the genius of Hall, his physician one day 
inquired how he felt himself. " Oh, sir I" replied the patient, 
" I've been with Mackintosh ; but it was the Euphrates pouring 
into a tea-cup*." 

ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT. 
Kensington, 
March 9, 1839. 



* All the Notes, not distinguished by any signature, have been contri- 
buted by the Editor. 



LETTERS OF EMINENT PERSONS. 



LETTER I. 
Anne Bullen to Henry VIII. 

Some curious particulars respecting the early history of this 
unfortunate lady, were discovered in a MS. of Sir Roger Twysden, 
1623, of which a few copies were printed for private circulation, in 
1808. Anne Bullen, it will be recollected, was one of the Maids 
of Honour to Queen Catherine, and it was during her residence at 
the Palace that Henry's passion was awakened. An attachment 
already subsisted between Anne and Lord Percy, son of the Earl 
of Northumberland ; and to his interruption of their hopes, 
Wolsey's downfall may be in great measure attributed. 

Anne Bullen had only enjoyed her elevation about three years, 
when the beauty of Jane Seymour kindled a new flame in the 
bosom of the king. The queen was arrested by his command, as 
she was coming up to London in her barge from Greenwich, and 
carried to the Tower, " about five o'clock in the afternoon, on the 
second of May." The pathetic appeal to the heart of her husband, 
was printed in the Life and Reign of Henry VIII., 1649, by Lord 
Herbert, who adduced no testimony in support of its genuineness, 
except a rumour of its having been found among the papers of the 
Secretary Cromwell. Lodge thinks it evidently the work of a 
wiser head, and a later age. 

Mr. D'Israeli relates a very affecting incident in the last hours of 
Anne Bullen, from Houssaie's Memoires : " Anne Bullen being on 
the scaffold, would not consent to have her eyes covered with a 
bandage, saying, that she had no fear of death. All that the 
divine, who assisted at her execution, could obtain from her, was 
that she would shut her eyes. But as she was opening them every 
moment, and that the executioner was fearful of missing his aim, 
he was obliged to invent an expedient to behead the queen. He 

B 



34 ANNE BULLEN 

drew off his shoes, and approached her silently ; while he was at 
her left hand, another person advanced at her right, who made a 
great noise in walking, so that this circumstance drawing the 
attention of Anne, she turned her face away from the executioner, 
who was enabled by this artifice to strike the fatal blow, without 
being disarmed by that spirit of affecting resignation which shone 
in the eyes" of the sufferer. The executioner is said to have been 
a native of Calais, and it has been conjectured that this story may 
have been traditionally preserved in France. 



Sir, 

Your Grace's displeasure, and my imprisonment, are 
things so strange unto me, as what to write, or what to 
excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you sent unto 
me (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain your favour) 
by such an one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed 
enemy ; I no sooner received this message from him, than I 
rightly conceived your meaning ; and if, as you say, confessing 
a truth, indeed, may procure my safety, I shall, with all 
willingness and duty, perform your command. 

But let not your Grace ever imagine that your poor wife 
will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where not so 
much as a thought thereof preceded. And, to speak a 
truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in 
all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bullen ; 
with which name and place I could willingly have contented 
myself, if God and your grace's pleasure had been so pleased. 
Never did I, at any time, so far forget myself in my exalta- 
tion, or received queenship, but that I always looked for 
such an alteration as now I find : for the ground of my pre- 
ferment being on no surer foundation than your Grace's fancy, 
the least alteration, I knew, was fit and sufficient to draw 
that fancy to some other subject. You have chosen me from 
low estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my 
desert and desire. If then you found me worthy of such 
honour, good your Grace, let not any light fancy, or bad 



TO HENRY VIII. 35 

counsel of mine enemies, withdraw your princely favour from 
me ; neither let that stain, that unworthy stain, of a disloyal 
heart towards your good grace, ever cast so foul a blot upon 
your most dutiful wife, and the infant princess your daughter. 
Try me, good king, but let me have a lawful trial ; and let 
not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges. Yea, 
let me receive an open trial, (for my truth shall fear no open 
shame,) then shall you see either mine innocence cleared, 
your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and 
slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. 
So that whatsoever God, or you, may determine of me, your 
grace may be freed from an open censure, and mine offence 
being so lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty, both before 
God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment upon 
me, as an unlawful wife, but to follow your affection, already 
settled on that party for whose sake I am now as I am ; 
whose name I could, some good while since, have pointed 
unto your grace, being not ignorant of my suspicion therein. 
But if you have already determined of me, and that not only 
my death, but an infamous slander, must bring you the 
enjoying of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that 
he will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise mine 
enemies, the instruments thereof; and that He will not call 
you to a strict account for your unprincely and cruel usage of. 
me, at His general Judgment-Seat, where both you and I 
must shortly appear, and in whose judgment I doubt not, 
(whatsoever the world may think of me,) mine innocence 
shall be openly known, and sufficiently cleared. My last and 
only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of 
your grace's displeasure, and that it may not touch the inno- 
cent souls of those poor gentlemen, who, as I understand, are 
likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I 
found favour in your sight, if ever the name of Anne Bullen 
hath been pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this 
request ; and I will so leave to trouble your Grace any farther; 

B2 



36 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

with my earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your Grace in 
his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions. From 
my doleful prison in the Tower, the sixth of May. 

Your most loyal, and ever faithful wife, 

Anne Bullen. 



LETTER II. 

Sir Philip Sidney to his Brother. — Advice. 

The life of Sidney has been called poetry put into action ; he 
lived with the applause of his contemporaries, and died with the 
admiration of the world. No incident in history rises more 
frequently to the recollection, than the exhausted warrior re- 
signing- the cup of water to a fainting soldier, whose need, he 
said, was greater than his own. Nor were his virtues confined to 
the nobler sentiments of the heroic character. The bravest 
champion in the tournament, was also the gentlest son in the 
social relations of life. His father declared him to be the most 
pure and amiable person he had ever known. He was equally 
illustrious for moral qualities and intellectual genius. The earliest 
notes of music in our prose came from the lips of Sidney : the 
" Apologie for Poetrie" was worthy of the friend and patron of 
Spenser. Among the tasks which contributed, as he writes to his 
brother, to close up his eyes with overwatching, the letter, in 
which he dissuaded Elizabeth from a marriage with the Duke of 
Anjou, may have been numbered. It bears the date of 1580. 

Robert Sidney did not disregard the injunctions of his brother; 
he was brave, learned, prudent, and gentle-hearted. Ben Jonson 
has recorded his domestic virtues with an ardour and tenderness of 
sentiment which he was always ready to devote to friendship. In 
the verses " to Penshurst," after describing the beauties of the 
domain, and the economy of the family, he alludes to the children 
of Robert Sidney, then Lord Lisle. 

They are, and have been taught religion ; thence 

Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence : 

Each morne and even they are taught to praye 

With the whole household ; and may every day 

Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts, 

The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. — The Forest. 



TO HIS BROTHER. 37 

In the Mr. Savile mentioned by Sir Philip Sidney, will be 
recognised the celebrated tntor of Queen Elizabeth ; and Nevyle 
was a person of considerable learning, who successively filled the 
situation of secretary to Archbishops Parker and Grindal. His 
paraphrastic translation of the OEdipus of Seneca, produced in his 
sixteenth year, is considered by Warton vigorous and poetical. 



My dear Brother, 

For the money you have received, assure yourself, 
(for it is true) there is nothing I spend so pleaseth me, as 
that which is for you. If ever I have ability you will find 
it ; if not, yet shall not any brother living be better beloved 
than you of me. I cannot write now to N. White, do you 
excuse me. For his nephew, they are but passions in my 
father which we must bear with reverence ; but I am sorry 
he should return till he had the circuit of his travel, for you 
shall never have such a servant as he would prove ; use your 
own discretion therein. For your countenance I would for 
no cause have it diminished in Germany; in Italy your 
greatest expense must be upon worthy men, and not upon 
householding. Look to your diet (sweet Robin), and hold up 
your heart in courage and virtue ; truly great part of my 
comfort is in you. I know not myself what I meant by 
bravery in you, so greatly you may see I condemn you ; be 
careful of yourself, and I shall never have cares. I have 
written to Mr. Savell; I wish you kept still together, he is 
an excellent man; and there may, if you list, pass good 
exercises betwixt you and Mr. Nevyle, there is great expec- 
tation of you both. For the method of writing history, 
Boden hath written at large ; you may read him, and gather 
out of many words some matter. This I think in haste : a 
story is either to be considered as a story or a treatise, which 
besides that, addeth many things for profit and ornament ; as 
a story, it is nothing but a narration of things done, with the 
beginnings, causes, and appendencies thereof; in that kind 



38 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 



your method must be to have seriem temporum very exactly, 
which the chronologies of Melancthon, Tarchagnora, Languet, 
and such other, will help you to. Then to consider * * * 
by that * * * * as you, not yourself * * * * * 
Xenophon to follow Thucidides, so doth Thucidides follow 
Herodotus, and Diodorus Siculus follow Xenophon : so 
generally do the Roman stories follow the Greek, and the 
particular stories of present monarchies follow the Roman. In 
that kind you have principally to note the examples of virtue 
or vice, with their good or evil successes ; the establishments 
or ruins of great estates, with the causes, the time, and cir- 
cumstances of the laws then writ of ; the enterings and end- 
ings of wars, and therein the stratagems against the enemy, 
and the discipline upon the soldier ; and thus much as a very 
historiographer. Besides this, the historian makes himself a 
discourser for profit ; and an orator, yea, a poet, sometimes 
for ornament. An orator, in making excellent orations e re 
nata y which are to be marked, but marked with the notes of 
rhetorical remembrances ; a poet, in painting forth the effects, 
the motions, the whisperings of the people, which, though in 
disputation, one might say were true ; yet who will mark 
them well, shall find them taste of a poetical vein, and in 
that kind are gallantly to be marked ; for though perchance 
they were not so, yet it is enough they might be so. The 
last point which tends to teach profit, is of a discourser, 
which name I give to whosoever speaks non simpliciter 
-de facto >, sed de qualitatibus et circumstantiis facti; and that is it 
which makes me and many others, rather note much with 
our pen than with our mind, because we leave all these dis- 
courses to the confused trust of our memory, because they 
being not tied to the tenor of a question, as philosophers use 
sometimes places ; the divine, in telling his opinion and 
reasons in religion ; sometimes the lawyer, in showing the 
causes and benefits of law ; sometimes a natural philosopher, 
in setting down the causes of any strange thing which the 



TO HIS BROTHER. 39 

story binds him to speak of; but most commonly a moral 
philosopher, either in the ethic part, when he sets forth 
virtues or vices, and the natures of passions, or in the politic, 
when he doth (as often he doth) meddle sententiously with 
matters of estate. Again, sometimes he gives precepts of 
war, both offensive and defensive ; and so, lastly, not profess- 
ing any art, as his matter leads him, he deals with all arts, 
which because it carrieth the life of a lively example, it is 
wonderful what light it gives to the arts themselves ; so as the 
great civilians help themselves with the discourses of the histo- 
rians, so do soldiers, and even philosophers, and astronomers: 
but that I wish herein is this, that when you read any such 
thing, you strait bring it to his head, not only of what art, 
but by your logical subdivisions, to the next member and 
parcel of the art. And so as in a table, be it witty words, of 
which Tacitus is full; sentences, of which Livy; or similitudes, 
whereof Plutarch; strait to lay it up in the right place of 
his storehouse, as either military, or more specially defensive 
military, or more particularly defensive by fortification, and 
so lay it up. So likewise in politic matters ; and such a 
little table you may easily make, wherewith I would have 
you ever join the historical part, which is only the example 
of some stratagem, or good counsel, or such like. This write 
I to you in great haste, of method without method, but with 
more leisure and study, (if I do not find some book that 
satisfies,) I will venture to write more largely of it unto you. 
Mr. Savile will with ease help you to set down such a table 
of remembrance to yourself, and for your sake I perceive he 
will do much, and if ever I be able, I will deserve it of him; 
one only thing, as it comes into my mind, let me remember 
you of, that you consider wherein the historian excelleth, and 
that to note; as Dion Nicaeus, in searching the secrets of 
government; Tacitus, in the pithy opening the venom of 
wickedness, and so of the rest. My time, exceedingly short, 
will suffer me to write no more leisurely ; Stephen can tell 



40 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

you who stands with me while I am writing. Now, dear 
brother, take delight likewise in the mathematical; Mr. 
Savell is excellent in them : I think you understand the 
sphere ; if you do, I care little for any more astronomy in 
you. Arithmetic and geometry I would wish you well seen 
in, so as both in matter of number and measure, you might 
have a feeling and active judgment ; I would you did bear 
the mechanical instruments wherein the Dutch excel. I 
write this to you as one, that for myself have given over the 
delight in the world ; but wish to you as much, if not more, 
than to myself. So you can speak and write Latin, not 
barbarously, I never require great study in Ciceronianism, 
the chief abuse of Oxford, qui dum verba sectantur, res ipsas 
negligunt. My toyful books I will send, with God's help, by 
February, at which time you shall have your money : and 
for 200Z. a year assure yourself, if the estates of England 
remain, you shall not fail of it ; use it to your best profit. 
My lord of Leicester sends you 40/., as I understand by 
Stephen ; and promiseth he will continue that stipend yearly 
at the least; then that is above commons ; in any case write 
largely and diligently unto him, for in troth, I have good 
proof that he means to be every way good unto you ; the odd 
30/. shall come with the hundred, or else my father and I 
willjarl. Now, sweet brother, take a delight to keep and 
increase your music ; you will not believe what a want T find 
of it in my melancholy times. At horsemanship, when you 
exercise it, read Crison Claudio, and a book that is called 
La Gloria del' Cavallo, withal, that you may join the 
thorough contemplation of it with the exercise ; and so shall 
you profit more in a month than others in a year, and mark 
the bitting, saddling, and curing of horses. I would, by the 
way, your worship would learn a better hand ; you write 
worse than I, and I write evil enough. Once again, have a 
care of your diet, and consequently of your complexion ; re- 
member gratior est veniens in pulchro corpore virtus. Now> 



TO HIS BROTHER. 41 

sir, for news I refer myself to this bearer, he can tell yon how 
we look on our neighbour s fires, and nothing has happened 
notable at home, save only Drake's return, of which yet I 
know not the secret points ; but about the world he hath 
been, and rich he is returned. Portugal we say is lost ; and 
to conclude, my eyes are almost closed up, overwatched with 
tedious business. God bless you, sweet boy, and accomplish 
the joyful hope I conceive of you. Once again, commend 
me to Mr. Nevyle, Mr. Savile, and honest Harry "White, and 
bid him be merry. "When you play at weapons, I would 
have you get thick caps and brasers, and play out your play 
lustily, for indeed, ticks and dalliances are nothing in earnest, 
for the time of the one and the other greatly differs ; and use 
as well the blow as the thrust; it is good in itself, and 
besides exerciseth your breath and strength, and will make 
you a strong man at the tournay and barriers. First, in any 
case, practise the single sword, and then with the dagger; let 
no day pass without an hour or two such exercise ; the rest 
study, or confer diligently, and so shall you come home to 
my comfort and credit. Lord ! how I have babbled ! Once 
again, farewell dearest brother. Your most loving and careful 
brother. 

At Leicester House, this 18th of October, 1580. 



LETTER III. 



Lord Brooke to a Lady, upon some Conjugal 
Infelicities. 

Lord Brooke was the relative, the schoolfellow, the friend, 
and the biographer, of Sir Philip Sidney, who bequeathed to him 
half of the books which the diligence of many years had collected. 
Brooke has descended to posterity as the servant of Queen Eliza- 
beth, the counsellor of King James, the friend of Sidney, the 
master of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, and the patron of Lord 
Egerton, and Bishop Overall. Camden says, that he was " no less 

B 3 



42 LORD BROOKE 

esteemed for the sweetness of his temper, than the dignity of his 
station." Lord Brooke survived Sir Philip Sidney forty years, 
and finally perished by the hand of a domestic. His genius appears 
to have "been meditative and profound. Southey has pronounced 
him the most thoughtful of poets ; and the following letter 
received the applause of Coleridge. "I do not remember," he 
says, in the Table Talk, " a more beautiful piece of prose in Eng- 
lish than the consolation addressed by Lord Brooke (Fulke Gre- 
ville) to a lady of quality, on certain conjugal infelicities. The 
diction is such, that it might have been written now, if we could 
find any one combining so thoughtful a head with so tender a 
heart, and so exquisite a taste." The letter, which appeared in 
the folio edition of his works, in 1633, is divided into four 
chapters, and was left by the author unfinished. Being too long- 
to transfer without abridgment, the latter portion has been 
omitted. 



Right honourable Lady, 

You are desirous, in regard of the trust you put in me, 
to understand mine opinion, how you should carry yourself 
through that labyrinth wherein, it seems, time and mischance 
have imprisoned you. It was a wisdom among our ancestors, 
not to deal between the bark and the tree, otherwise than 
with confessors, shrifts, and such like superstitious rites, as 
discharging ourselves, did vainly charge others with our 
desires. But the twine is so strong, wherewith your worth 
and favour have bound me, as I will imagine our predecessors' 
aphorisms in that point, to be rather a modesty out of sloth, 
or ignorance, than any precept fit to govern our loves, or lives 
by. For first, the liberality of knowledge makes no man 
poorer ; and then the charity is much more meritorious that 
relieves distressed minds, than distressed bodies. Therefore 
to break through these mists, (with how little wisdom soever, 
yet with reverent good will,) I will first compare the state 
you were in, with that wherein you stand now : then your 
nature with your lord's : and lastly, the privileges of a wife, 
with the authorities of a husband. 



TO A LADY. 43 

When you married him, I know for yonr part, he was 
your first love; and I judge the like of him. What the 
freedom and simplicity of those humours were, every man is a 
witness that hath not forgotten his own youth. And though 
it be rather a counsell of remorse than help, to lay before you 
your errors past ; yet because they teach you to know, that 
time is it that maketh the same thing easy, and impossible, 
leaving withall an experience for things to come ; I must in a 
word lay occasion past before you. 

Madame ! in those near conjunctions of society, wherein 
death is the only honourable divorce, there is but one end, 
which is mutual joy; and to that end two assured ways. 
The one, by cherishing affection with affection ; the other, by 
working affection, while she is yet in her pride, to a reve- 
rence, which hath more power than itself. To which are 
required advantage, or at least equality; art, as well as 
nature. For contempt is else as near as respect, the loving- 
est minds being not ever the most lovely. Now though it be 
true that affections are relatives, and love the surest adamant 
of love; yet it must not be measured by the untemperate lean 
of itself, since prodigality yields fulness, satiety a desire of 
change, and change repentance; but so tempered even in 
trust, enjoying, and all other familiarities, that the appetites 
of them we would please may still be covetous, and their 
strengths rich. Because the decay of either is a point of all 
huswifery, and they that are first bankrupt shut up their doors. 
In this estate of minds, only governed by the unwritten laws 
of nature, you did at the beginning live happily together. 
Wherein there is a lively image of that golden age which 
the allegories of the poets figure unto us. For there equality 
guided without absoluteness, earth yielded fruit without 
labour, desert perished in reward, the names of wealth and 
poverty were strange; no owing in particular, no private 
improving of humours; the traffic being love for love; and the 
exchange, all for all : exorbitant abundance being never curious 



44 LORD BROOKE 

in those self-seeking arts which tear up the bowels of the 
earth for the private use of more than milk and honey. Not- 
withstanding, since in the vicissitudes of things and times, 
there must of necessity follow a brazen age ; there ought to 
be a discreet care in love: in respect the advantage will else 
prove theirs that first usurp, and breaking through the laws 
of nature, strive to set down their own reaches of will. 

Here, Madame 1 had it been in your power, you should 
have framed that second way of peace, studying to keep him 
from evil, whose corruption could not be without misfortune 
to you. For there is no man but doth first fall from his 
duties to himself, before he can fall away from his duty to 
others. This second way is that, where affection is made but 
the gold, to hold a jewel far more precious than itself — I mean 
Respect and Reverence; which two powers, well mixed, have 
exceeding strong and strange variety of working. For in- 
stance, take Coriolanus, who (Plutarch saith) loved worthi- 
ness for his mother's sake. And though true love contain 
them both, yet because one corruption hath, by want of 
differences, both confounded words and beings, I must vul- 
garly distinguish names as they are current. The ways to 
this respect and reverence, (as shadows to the body of worth,) 
are placed not in the sense, but understanding; where they 
stand upon diverse degrees and strengths of reason, not to be 
approached with the flattering familiarity of inferior humours; 
as having no affinity with desire and remorse; high, or low 
estate. Whence we see kings sometimes receive them not 
from their vassals, but rather pay them as tributes to them. 
In this mystery lies hidden that which some call (applying it 
to matters of Estate) the Art of Government; others the 
Art of Men; whereby equality is made unequal, and free- 
dom brought into subjection. Example all sovereign estates 
commanding over other men, born as free as their rulers; and 
those sovereigns ruled again, by the advantage of worth in 
their inferiors. 



TO A LADY. 45 

Into this superiority, Noble Lady, it seems your husband 
hath stept before you, not by any counsel of worth, which 
with a natural motion draws respect and reverence upward; 
but by a crafty observing the weakness of men, wherewith 
men are best acquainted. For as our desires are more untem- 
perately earnest than women's; so are our repentances more 
strange, and easily inclined to change, if not to loathing. 
Of which forbidden tree when the affections have once tasted, 
presently, as in the brazen age, naked Eve must hide her 
shame, sowe that she will reap, and no more enjoy the full 
measure of reciprocal love, but be stinted with the unconstant 
proportions of power and will. Because the knowledge of 
evil doth ever teach the first offender to seek advantage ; and 
so when they have sinned against the true equalities of love, 
to take privilege in the false sanctuaries of place, person, 
sex, or time; deceiving the truth with that which should 
defend it. Here division draws out her unreconciled parallels, 
to make the unity of man and wife to become less one ; and 
then it follows, that they which yield most do not command 
most, as before in the laws of natural affection : but contrari- 
wise, they that give, enrich them that take; they that love 
must suffer, and the best is sure to be worst used. Because 
the ends of society are no more now to love, or equally parti- 
cipate, but absolutely to rule; and where that is the conten- 
tion, what need statutes, or recognizances, to tie those humble 
natures, that pass away the fee-simple of themselves, either 
with self-lovingness, or superstitious opinion of duty? For 
it is with them, as with the rivers that run out their waters 
into the sea Caspium; the more goodness, the less return. 

Upon this step, it seems, your husband stood, when he 
began to think of something more than mutual enjoying; as 
drawing the familiarity of native affections under the affected 
absoluteness of a husband's power. Here flesh-pleasure 
(which springs and withers with ourself,) began, as glut- 
tony doth, to kindle new appetite with variety of meats. 



46 LORD BROOKE 

Here comes in change of delights, and delight in change; the 
riches of desire in that it hath not; the triumphs of opinion, 
which though the flesh of any one be a true map of all flesh, 
yet doth it rack us still with idolatrous longing after strange 
and ugly images of it. For the restless confusion of Error 
hath this plague, that her peace must be still in the power of 
others, where Nature hath placed both the way and guide of 
true peace within ourselves. But who are they that can 
walk this milky way ? Not those unconstant spirits which 
are wandered into the wilderness of desire; nor those, whose 
ugly prospect is unrepentant horror; whose senses are Spies 
of Conscience upon their faults ; their reasons purchased into 
bondage by offers of their servant-affections; and whose 
informing Consciences stand, like Tormentors with stained 
tables, to give in evidence of secret deformity. No, Madam; 
this milky way (is) for those single and simple spirits, who 
foolish, and ignorant in evil, think the passage to it hard, if 
not impossible; or when they idly slip, do yet recover, with 
a regenerate industry; not joying, as those other vagabond 
souls, after they have deceived themselves, to stray abroad 
and deceive others. This is a general description of the fall 
of minds; wherein there is, notwithstanding, an infancy and 
a man's estate; because, as easy as the evil is, yet no man 
grows by and by to her extremities. Besides, there are 
degrees, and differences, according to the state, frame, and 
mixture of humours in the body; some inclined to one frailty, 
some to another; some languishing, some violent; some 
proper to ages, fortunes, times, with such expectations as are 
in particulars under all universal rules. 



And, Madame ! now that we have done with this fleshly 
prospect, if we consider the world, we shall find that to be 
unto a man, like a sea to an island, full of storms, uncertain- 
ties, violence; whose confusions have neither justice, nor 



TO A LADY. 47 

mercy in them. If we examine the motives that caused the 
man to make Art his Nature, and to borrow wooden feet to 
walk over her moving waters; we shall find them to have 
been necessity, covetousness, curiosity, ambition, and some 
such other enemies to rest, as with false greatnesses (while 
men could not endure little things) inforced them through 
pain and danger to suffer all the torments of uncertainty. To 
apply which comparison, IVJadame, you shall see the same 
impotent humours are they, who, having first wearied us 
within, do after persuade us to seek peace in the world with- 
out; where we being forced to wrestle with others, because 
we could not overcome ourselves, instead of one evil are con- 
strained to encounter many. And justly; since where in all 
inward ways to peace, man needs no laws but God's, and his 
own obedience; if he once go into traffic with the world, his 
desires are there bound with the snares of custom, the heavy 
hand of power, the trammels of authority, which conceal (as the 
poets say) under the golden garments of Pandora all the venom 
of her brazen tun. And in that bottomless pit of humours 
shall we not find deceit as infinite as desire; honour, but 
the throne of care; prosperity both the child and mother of 
labour ? To be short, we shall there find, (though too late,) 
that all fortunes, and misfortunes, are but moulds of momen- 
tary affections, spun out with proportion, or disproportion of 
time, place, and natures. So as since no estate can privilege 
this life from death, sickness, pain, (power itself being alike 
feared, and fearful,) must we not think to gather our roses 
among thorns, and consequently the world to be a flattering 
glass, wherein man rather sees how to change, or adorn his 
evils, than any way to reduce, or amend them ? 

Through this false paradise, Noble Lady, we must therefore 
pass, as Ulysses did by the enchanted deserts of Circe; 
stopping our ears, and closing our eyes, lest our rebellious 
senses, as apt to flatter, as to be flattered, chance to take part 
with the diversity of beguiling objects, and to lead our misty 



48 



LORD BROOKE 



understandings captive to perdition. The company of Ulysses, 
(like multitudes strange in sense, and weak in reason,) by 
making love to their own harm, were, with open ears and 
eyes, transformed into sundry shapes of beasts; the poets 
figuring to us, in them, the diverse deformities of bewitching 
frailties, wherewith, for lack of Divine Grace, or human caution, 
they get power to insnare us. And in this captivity, let no 
ignorance seem to excuse mankind ; since the light of truth is 
still near us ; the tempter and accuser at such continual war 
within us; the laws that guide, so good for them that obey; 
and the first shape of every sin so ugly, as whosoever does 
but what he knows, or forbears what he doubts, shall easily 
follow Nature unto Grace; and if he in that way obtain not 
the righteousness of eternity, yet shall he purchase the world's 
time, and eternity, by moral fame. For obedience, not curio- 
sity, as in heavenly, so in earthly things, is the most accept- 
able sacrifice of mankind. Because this inherent tribute of 
Nature unto Power (like a revealed light of universal Grace,) 
refines man's reason, rectifies his will, turns his industries and 
learnings inward again, whence they came, joins words with 
things, and reduceth both of them to their first beings. To 
conclude, this is that inward fabric, by which we do what we 
think, and speak what we do. 

Now, Madame, in this narrow path, your helps, both 
against inward assaults and outward temptations, must be 
those moderate sweet humours, which I have known to be in 
you, and some of yours. This moderation of desires being 
a far freer, and surer way, than the satisfying of them can be ; 
repentance following the one, and peace the other; the one 
course making nature go as well too fast back, as forwards ; 
and so must consequently offend others with that which first 
offended themselves; whereas these moderate affections do 
with a natural harmony please themselves; and then must not 
the air of that untroubled world naturally yield peace to 
every creature that breathes in or about it ? Besides, this 



TO A LADY. 49 

moderation brings forth few desires; strong humbleness to 
pay the tributes of power; patience, as an armour against 
oppression ; truth, as a sacrifice ; whereby the world which 
gives but what it hath, and the evil of others that desires to 
oppress or infect, can the hardlier find means to trouble them, 
or colour, why they should study to do it. My counsel is 
therefore, madame, that you enrich yourself upon your own 
stock ; not looking outwardly, but inwardly, for the fruit of 
true peace, whose roots are there ; and all outward things, 
but ornaments, or branches, which impart their sweet fruits 
with the humble spirit of others. 



Now that we have shaken our hopes, the next chief engine 
of power is terror ; a breath which seemeth to pierce nearer 
and nearer, and not to leave us safe or free within ourselves. 
Because it hath slander at commandment, spies, accusers, vio- 
lence and oppression; which fools understand not, and base men 
give over-much reverence unto. And against these I can only 
say this; that they be the fires in whose heat worthiness is re- 
purified : and by whose light the glories of it are farthest seen. 
So as for these violences of temptations, I persuade you to 
make Job your example ; a type whom God gave the devil 
leave to persecute in his goods, his children, and in his person, 
with such infirmities of body as had both pain and loathsome- 
ness in them. And mark again in the same afflicted Job in 
whom the excellent wisdom of constancy is figured: he 
neither did sacrifice to his evil angel, nor studied amends or 
relief at the hands of his tempter, but walled his flesh with 
patience, and his conscience with innocency; leaving to the 
devil that which was his; I mean his body and fortune, subject 
by Adam's discreation to the Prince of sensuality. 



50 DONNE 

LETTER IV. 

Donne to a Friend. — Tenderness to his Wife. 

All the characteristics of the poetry and the prose of Donne 
will be found in his letters; the same eccentricity of expression, 
originality of thought, and liveliness of illustration, surprise the 
reader in every page. The commonest remark is invested by the 
writer with an air of novelty. "It may be," he says to Lady 
Bridget White, " so many of my letters are lost, that it is time 
one should come, like Job's servant, to bring word that the rest 
were lost." But his letters are also interesting as developements of 
personal feelings, and descriptions of his situation and prospects. 
Many of them were written amid the perplexities into which an 
improvident marriage had plunged him. Soon after his return to 
England, Donne had obtained the appointment as secretary to Lord 
Ellesmere, in whose family he formed an attachment to the 
daughter of Sir George More. A clandestine marriage occasioned 
Donne's dismissal from the situation ; and to the letter, communi- 
cating the intelligence to his wife, he subscribed himself 
John Donne, Ann Donne, Un-Done. 

Donne's Letters were published by his son, in 1654. The 
allusion to his wife, in the following letter, is particularly touching. 



A. Y.(uestra) Merced. (To your Grace.) 

Sir, 

I write not to you out of my poor library, where to cast 
mine eye upon good authors kindles or refreshes sometimes 
meditations not unfit to communicate to near friends; nor 
from the high way, where I am contracted, and inverted into 
myself; which are my two ordinary forges of letters to you. 
But I write from the fire-side in my parlour, and in the 
noise of three gamesome children ; and by the side of her, 
whom because I have transplanted into a wretched fortune, 
X must labour to disguise that from her by all such honest 
devices, as giving her my company and discourse; therefore 
I steal from her all the time which I give this letter, and it is 
therefore that I take so short a list, and gallop so fast over it. 



TO A FRIEND. 51 

I hare not been out of my house since I received your pacquet. 
As I have much quenched my senses, and disused my body 
from pleasure, and so tried how I can endure to be mine own 
grave, so I try now how I can suffer a prison. And since it 
is but to build one wall more about our soul, she is still in 
her own centre, how many circumferences soever fortune or 
our own perverseness cast about her. I would I could as 
well entreat her to go out, as she knows whither to go. But 
if I melt into a melancholy whilst I write, I shall be taken in 
the manner: and I sit by one too tender towards these impres- 
sions, and it is so much our duty, to avoid all occasions of 
giving them sad apprehensions as St. Hierome accuses Adam 
of no other fault in eating the apple, but that he did it, Ne 
eontristaretur clelicias snas. <$-c, fyc. 



LETTER V. 

To Sir H.(enry) G.(oodyere). — Letters. 
Sir, 

In the history or style of friendship, which is best 
written both in deeds and words, a letter which is of a mixed 
nature, and hath something of both, is a mixed Parenthesis. 
It may be left out, yet it contributes, though not to the being, 
yet to the verdure and freshness thereof. Letters have truly 
the same office as oaths. As these, amongst light and empty 
men, are but fillings, and pauses, and interjections; but with 
weightier, they are sad attestations; so are letters to some 
compliment, and obligation to others. For mine, as I never 
authorized my servant to lie in my behalf, (for if it were 
officious in him, it might be worse in me;) so I allow my 
letters much less that civil dishonesty, both because they go 
from me more considerately, and because they are permanent; 
for in them I may speak to you in your chamber a year hence 
before I know not whom, and not hear myself. They shall 



52 DONNE 

therefore ever keep the sincerity and intemerateness of the 
fountain whence they are derived. And as wheresoever these 
leaves fall, the root is my heart, so shall they, as that sucks 
good affections towards you there, have ever true impressions 
thereof. Thus much information is in the very leaves, that 
they can tell what the tree is, and these can tell you I am a 
friend, and an honest man. Of what general use, the fruit 
should speak, and I have none; and of what particular profit 
to you, your application and experimenting should tell you, 
and you can make none of such a nothing: yet even of barren 
sycamores, such as I, there were use, if either any light flash- 
ings, or scorching vehemencies, or sudden showers, made you 
need so shadowy an example or remembrancer. But, Sir, 
your fortune and mind do you this happy injury, that they 
make all kind of fruits useless unto you. Therefore I have 
placed my love wisely where I need communicate nothing. 
All this, though perchance you read it not till Michaelmas, 
was told you at Mitcham, J 5 August, 1607- 



LETTER VI. 

To the same. — Allusions to Himself. 
Sir, 

Every Tuesday I make account that I turn a great 
hour-glass, and consider that a week's life is run out since I 
writ. But if I ask myself what I have done in the last 
watch, or would do in the next, I can say nothing; if I say 
that I have passed it without hurting any, so may the spider 
in my window. The primitive Monks were excusable in 
their retirings and enclosures of themselves : for even of them 
every one cultivated his own garden and orchard, that is, his 
soul and body, by meditation and manufactures ; and they 
ought the world no more, since they consumed none of her 
sweetness, nor begot others to burden her. But for me, if I 



TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE. 53 

were able to husband all my time so thriftily, as not only not 
to wound my soul in any minute by actual sin, but not to rob 
and cozen her by giving any part to pleasure or business, but 
bestow it all upon her in meditation, yet even in that I should 
wound her more, and contract another guiltiness : as the eagle 
were very unnatural, if, because she is able to do it, she should 
perch a whole day upon a tree, staring in contemplation of 
the majesty and glory of the sun, and let her young eaglets 
starve in the nest. Two of the most precious things which 
God hath afforded us here, for the agony and exercise of our 
sense and spirit, which are a thirst and inhiation after the 
next life, and a frequency of prayer and meditation in this, 
are often envenomed and putrefied, and stray into a corrupt 
disease : for as God doth thus occasion and positively concur 
to evil, that when a man is purposed to do a great sin, God 
infuses some good thoughts which make him choose a less 
sin, or leave out some circumstance which aggravated that ; 
so the devil doth not only suffer but provoke us to some 
things naturally good, upon condition that we shall omit some 
other more necessary and more obligatory. And this is his 
greatest subtilty, because herein we have the deceitful comfort 
of having done well, and can very hardly spy our error, 
because it is but an insensible omission, and no accusing act. 
"With the first of these I have often suspected myself to be 
overtaken; which is, with the desire of the next life: which 
though I know it is not merely out of a weariness of this, 
because I had the same desires w T hen I went with the tide, 
and enjoyed fairer hopes than now: yet I doubt worldly 
incumbrances have increased it. I would not that death 
should take me asleep. I would not have him merely seize 
me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and over- 
come me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a sea, 
where mine impotency might have some excuse; not in a 
sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise 
for my swimming. Therefore I would fain do something; 



54 DONNE TO SIR HENRY GOOD YE RE. 

but that I cannot tell what, is no wonder. For to choose, is 
to do; but to be no part of anybody, is to be nothing. At 
most, the greatest persons are but great wens and excres- 
cences; men of wit and delightful conversation, but as moles 
I for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of 
; the world, that they contribute something to the sustentation 
of the wdiole. This I made account that I began early, when 
I undertook the study of our laws : but was diverted by the 
worst voluptuousness, which is an Hydroptique immoderate 
desire of human learning and languages : beautiful ornaments 
to great fortunes; but mine needed an occupation, and a 
course which I thought I entered well into, when I submit- 
ted myself to such a service as I thought might have 
employed those poor advantages which I had. And there I 
stumbled too, yet I would try again : for to this hour I am no- 
thing, or so little, that I am scarce subject and argument good 
enough for one of mine own letters: yet I fear, that doth not 
ever proceed from a good root, that I am so well content to be 
less, that is dead. You, Sir, are far enough from these descents; 
your virtue keeps you secure, and your natural disposition to 
mirth will preserve you. But lose none of these holds; a slip 
is often as dangerous as a bruise, and though you cannot fall 
to my lowness, yet, in a much less distraction, you may meet 
my sadness; for he is no safer which falls from an high tower 
into the leads, than he which falls from thence to the ground; 
make therefore to yourself some mark, and go towards it 
alegrement. Though I be in such a planetary and erratic for- 
tune, that I can do nothing constantly, yet you may find some 
constancy in my constant advising you to it. 

Your hearty true friend, 

J. Donne. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO HIS WIFE. 55 



LETTER VII. 

Sir Walter Raleigh to his Wife; written the night "before 
he expected to be beheaded at Winchester, 1603. 

Raleigh had been indicted at Staines, September 21st, 1603, 
for an alleged conspiracy, with Lords Grey and Cobham. The 
plague raging in London at that time, the term was held at Win- 
chester, whither Raleigh was removed on the 10th of November. 
A full account of the accusations against him may be seen in his 
Life by Birch. The jury, after deliberating for a quarter of an 
hour, pronounced him guilty of treason ; although some, according 
to Osborne, subsequently besought his pardon upon their knees. 
After being detained at Winchester nearly a month in daily expec- 
tation of death, Raleigh was removed to the Tower on the 15th of 
December, where his wife was soon allowed to join him. During 
his confinement, he composed his History of the World, and at 
length obtained his release, after an imprisonment of more than 
twelve years, upon the 17th of March, 1615-16. 



You shall now receive (my dear wife) my last words in 
these my last lines. My love I send you, that you may 
keep it when I am dead ; and my counsel, that you may 
remember it when I am no more. I would not by my will 
present you with sorrows, (dear Bess,) let them go to the 
grave, and be buried with me in the dust ; and seeing it is 
not the will of God that ever I shall see you more in this 
life, bear it patiently, and with a heart like thyself. First, I 
send you all the thanks my heart can conceive, or my words can 
express, for your many travails and cares taken for me; which, 
though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my 
debt to you is not the less : but pay it I never shall in this 
world. Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bear me 
living, do not hide yourself many days; but by your travail, 
seek to help your miserable fortune and the right of your poor 
child ; thy mourning cannot avail me, I am but dust. Thirdly, 
you shall understand that my land was conveyed (bond fide) 



56 SIR WALTER RALEIGH 

to my child ; the writings were drawn at Midsummer was 
twelve months; my honest cousin Brett can testify so 
much, and Dalberie too can remember somewhat therein : and 
I trust my blood will quench their malice, that have thus 
cruelly murdered me ; and that they will not seek also to 
kill thee and mine with extreme poverty. To what friend to 
direct thee I know not, for all mine have left me in the true 
time of trial; and I plainly perceive that my death was 
determined from *the first day. Most sorry I am, (as God 
knows,) that, being thus surprised by death, I can leave you 
no better estate : God is my witness, I meant you all my 
office of wines, or that I could have purchased by selling it ; 
half my stuff, and all my jewels, but some one for the boy ; 
but God hath prevented all my resolutions, even that great 
God that worketh all in all; but if you live free from want, 
care for no more, for the rest is but vanity ; love God, and 
begin betimes to repose your trust on him ; therein shall you 
find true and lasting riches, and endless comfort. For the 
rest, when you have travailed and wearied your thoughts, 
over all sorts of worldly cogitation, you shall but sit down by 
sorrow in the end. Teach your son also to serve and fear 
God whilst he is yet young, that the fear of God may grow 
up with him ; and then will God be a husband unto you, and 
a father unto him — a husband and a father which can never 
be taken from you. Bayly oweth me two hundred pounds, 
and Adrian Gilbert six hundred pounds. In Jersey, also, I 
have much money owing me ; besides, the arrearages of the 
wines will pay my debts; and howsoever you do, for my 
soul's sake, pay all poor men. When I am gone, no doubt 
you shall be sought for by many, for the world thinks that I 
was very rich: but take heed of the pretences of men and their 
affections, for they last not but in honest and worthy men ; 
and no greater misery can befall you in this life than to 
become a prey, and afterwards to be despised. I speak not 
this, (God knows,) to dissuade you from marriage, for it will 



TO HIS WIFE. 57 

be best for you, both in respect of the world and of God. As 
for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine, death has cut us 
asunder ; and God hath divided me from the world, and you 
from me. 

Remember your poor child for his father's sake, who chose 
you, and loved you in his happiest time. Get those letters 
(if it be possible) which I writ to the lords, wherein I sued 
for my life. God is my witness, it was for you and yours that I 
desired life ; but is true that I disdain myself for begging it ; 
for know it, (dear wife,) that your son is the son of a true 
man, and one who in his own respect despiseth death, and all 
his mishapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much; God he 
knoweth how hardly I steal this time while others sleep ; and 
it is also high time that I should separate my thoughts from 
the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied thee, 
and either lay it at Sherborn (if the land continue), or in 
Exeter church, by my father and mother : I can say no more ; 
time and death call me away. 

' The everlasting God, infinite, powerful, and inscrutable ; 
that Almighty God which is goodness itself, mercy itself, the 
true life and light, keep thee and thine, have mercy on me, 
and teach me to forgive my persecutors and false accusers, 
and send us to meet again in his glorious kingdom ! My 
true wife, farewell ! bless my poor boy ; pray for me, and let 
my good God hold you both in his arms. 

Written with the dying hand of sometime thy husband, 
but now (alas !) overthrown. 

Yours that was, but now not my own, 

Walter Ralegh. 



58 BEN JONSON 

LETTER VII. 

Ben Jonson to the Two Universities. — A Defence 

of Poetry. 

The reader who has compared the structure and the pauses of 
Jonson's blank verse with those of Milton, will not be surprised to 
discover in the noble dedication of The Fox, the peculiar charac- 
teristics of Milton's prose. The relationship between the dramatist 
and the epic poet, may be traced not only in their intellectual, but 
in their moral features. They were equally learned ; equally con- 
fident in their own powers ; equally regardless of the acquirements 
of others. Both delighted in Attic and Latin idioms, and both 
occasionally rose into the loftiest flights of eloquence and passion. 
The following composition of Jonson is not inappropriately included 
in a volume of letters. It belongs to a species of writing, which a 
revolution of taste has banished from our literature. To the prac- 
tice of addressing the powerful and opulent in a laudatory epistle, 
we owe some of the most beautiful passages of Taylor, of Hall, and 
of De Foe ; and the earliest specimens of English criticism are 
contained in the eloquent adulation of Dryden. Each of the three 
divisions of Taylor's Great Exemplar is inscribed to a separate 
individual ; an engine of harmless flattery, which in the words of 
his biographer, "he was too grateful, or too poor, to omit any oppor- 
tunity of employing." The comedy of the Fox, to which this 
dedicatory epistle is prefixed, was represented at the Globe Theatre 
in 1605, and printed in 1607, having been previously represented 
before the Universities with great applause. It has been considered 
the master-piece of Jonson ; and Cumberland pronounced his por- 
trait of Mosca, the parasite of Volpone, to be equal to the happiest 
delineation of antiquity. Mr. GifFord, however, preferred the 
Alchemist, whose plot, in the opinion of Coleridge, was absolutely 
perfect ; he coupled it, in this particular, with the Tom Jones of 
Fielding, and the (Edipus Tyrannus of Sophocles. 



Never, most equal Sisters, had any man a wit so presently 
excellent, as that it could raise itself; but there must come 
both matter, occasion, commenders, and favourers to it. If 
this be true, and that the fortune of all writers doth daily 
prove it, it behoves the careful to provide well towards these 



TO THE TWO UNIVERSITIES. 59 

accidents ; and, having acquired them, to preserve that part 
of reputation most tenderly, wherein the benefit of a friend 
is also defended. Hence is it, that I now render myself 
grateful, and am studious to justify the bounty of your act ; 
to which, though your mere authority were satisfying, yet it 
being an age wherein poetry and the professors of it hear so 
ill on all sides, there will a reason be looked for in the subject. 
It is certain, nor can it with any forehead be opposed, that 
the too much license of poetasters in this time, hath much 
deformed their mistress ; that, every day, their manifold and 
manifest ignorance doth stick unnatural reproaches upon her ; 
but for their petulancy, it were an act of the greatest in- 
justice, either to let the learned suffer, or so divine a skill, 
(which indeed should not be attempted with unclean hands,) 
to fall into the least contempt. For, if men will impartially, 
and not asquint, look toward the offices and function of a 
poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the impossibility 
of any man's being a good poet, without first being a good 
man. He that is said to be able to inform young men to all 
good disciplines, inflame grown men to all great virtues, 
keep old men in their best and supreme state, or, as they 
decline to childhood, recover them to their first strength ; that 
comes forth the interpreter and arbiter of nature, a teacher of 
things divine, no less than human, a master in manners ; and 
can alone, or with a few, effect the business of mankind ; this, 
I take him, is no subject for pride and ignorance to exercise 
their railing rhetoric upon. But it will here be hastily 
answered, that the writers of these days are other things ; 
that not only their manners, but their natures, are inverted, 
and nothing remaining with them of the dignity of poet, but 
the abused name, which every scribe usurps; — that now, 
especially in dramatic, or, as they term it, stage-poetry, 
nothing but ribaldry, profanation, blasphemy, all license of 
offence to God and man, is practised. I dare not deny a 
great part of this, and am sorry I dare not, because in some 

c 2 



60 BEN JONSOX 

men's abortive features, (and would they had never boasted 
the light,) it is over true ; but that all are embarked in this 
bold adventure for hell, is a most uncharitable thought, and, 
uttered, a more malicious slander. For my particular, I can, 
and from a most clear conscience, affirm, that I have ever 
trembled to think towards the least profaneness ; have loathed 
the use of such foul and unwashed bawdry, as is now made 
the food of the scene : and, howsoever I cannot escape from 
some, the imputation of sharpness, but that they will say, I 
have taken a pride or lust to be bitter, and not my youngest 
infant but hath come into the world with all his teeth ; 
I would ask of these supercilious politics, what nation, 
society, or general order or state, I have provoked? what 
public person? whether I have not in all these preserved 
their dignity, as mine own person, safe ? My works are 
read, allowed, (I speak of those that are entirely mine,) look 
into them ; what broad reproofs have I used ? where have I 
been particular ? where personal ? except to a mimic, cheater, 
or buffoon, creatures, for their insolencies worthy to be taxed ? 
Yet to which of these so pointingly, as he might not either 
ingenuously have confest, or wisely dissembled his disease? But 
it is not rumour can make men guilty, much less entitle me to 
other men's crimes. I know that nothing can be so innocently 
writ or carried, but may be made obnoxious to construction; 
marry, whilst I bear mine own innocence about me, I fear it 
not. Application is now grown a trade with many; and 
there are that profess to have a key for the deciphering of 
every thing : but let wise and noble persons take heed how 
they be too credulous, or give leave to these invading inter- 
preters to be over-familiar with their fames, who cunningly, 
and often, utter their own virulent malice, under other men's 
simplest meaning. As for those that will, (by faults which 
charity hath raked up, or common honesty concealed,) make 
themselves a name with the multitude, or, to draw their 
rude and beastly claps, care not whose living faces they 



TO THE TWO UNIVERSITIES. ()l 

intrench with their petulant styles, may they do it without 
a rival for me ! I choose rather to live graved in obscurity, 
than share with them in so preposterous a fame. Nor can I 
blame the wishes of those severe and wise patriots, who pro- 
viding the hurts these licentious spirits may do in a state, 
desire rather to see fools and devils, and those antique relics 
of barbarism retrieved, with all other ridiculous and exploded 
follies, than behold the wounds of private men, of princes, and 
nations : for, as Horace makes Trebatius speak among these, 

— Sibi quisque timet, quamquam est intactus, et odit. 
And men may justly impute such rages, if continued, to the 
writer, as his sports. The increase of which lust in liberty 
together with the present trade of the stage, in all their 
miscelline interludes, what learned or liberal soul doth not 
already abhor ? Where nothing but the filth of the time is 
uttered, and with such impropriety of phrase, such plenty of 
solecisms, such dearth of sense, so bold prolepses, so racked 
metaphors, with brothelry, able to violate the ear of a pagan, 
and blasphemy, to turn the blood of a Christian to water. I 
cannot but be serious in a cause of this nature, wherein my 
fame, and the reputation of divers honest and learned, are the 
question ; when a name so full of authority, antiquity, and 
all great mark, is, through their insolence, become the lowest 
scorn of the age ; and those men subject to the petulancy of 
every vernaculous orator, that were wont to be the care of 
kings and happiest monarchs. This it is that hath not only 
rapt me to present indignation, but made me studious hereto- 
fore, and by all my actions, to stand off from them ; which 
may most appear in this my latest work, which you, most 
learned Arbitresses, have seen, judged, and to my renown 
approved ; wherein I have laboured for their instruction and 
amendment, to reduce not only the ancient forms, but man- 
ners of the scene, the easiness, the propriety, the innocence, 
and last, the doctrine, which is the principal end of poesie, to 



62 BEN JONSON 

inform men in the best reason of living. And though my 
catastrophe may, in the strict rigour of comic law, meet 
with censure, as turning back to my promise ; I desire the 
learned and charitable critic to have so much faith in me, to 
think it was done of industry : for, with what ease I could 
have varied it nearer his scale (but that I fear to boast my 
own faculty) I could here insert. But my special aim being 
to put the snaffle in their mouths that cry out, "We never 
punish vice in our interludes, &c. ; I took the more liberty ; 
though not without some lines of example, drawn even in the 
ancients themselves, the goings out of whose comedies are not 
always joyful, but oft times the servants, the rivals, yea, and 
the masters are mulcted ; and fitly, it being the office of a 
comic poet to imitate justice, and instruct to life, as well 
as purity of language, or stir up gentle affections : to which I 
shall take the occasion elsewhere to speak. 

For the present, most reverenced Sisters, as I have cared to 
be thankful for your affections past, and have made the under- 
standing acquainted with some ground of your favours ; let 
me not despair their continuance, to the maturing of some 
worthier fruits ; wherein, if my muses be true to me, I shall 
raise the despised head of poetry again, and stripping her out 
of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times have 
adulterated her form, restore her to her primitive habit, feature, 
and majesty, and render her worthy to be embraced and kist 
of all the great and master-spirits of our world. As for the 
vile and slothful, who never affected an act worthy of cele- 
bration, or are so inward with their own vicious natures, as 
they worthily fear her, and think it an high point of policy 
to keep her in contempt, with their declamatory and windy 
invectives; she shall out of just rage incite her servants (who 
are genus irritabile) to spout ink in their faces, that shall eat 
farther than their marrow into their fames ; and not Cinnamus, 
the barber, with his art, shall be able to take out the brands ; 



TO THE TWO UNIVERSITIES. 63 

but they shall live, and be read, till the wretches die, as 
things worst deserving of themselves in chief, and then of all 
mankind. 

From my House in the Black-Friars, this 11th day of 
February, 1607- 



LETTER VIII. 

Lord Bacon, after his disgrace, to James the First. 

The most affecting eulogy upon the fallen Chancellor, was 
pronounced by his friend Ben Jonson, in one of those majestic frag- 
ments of prose, upon which he bestowed the name of Explorata, or 
Discoveries : — " My conceit of his person was never increased to- 
wards him by his place, or honours ; but I have, and do reverence 
him, for the greatness that was only proper to himself, in that he 
seemed to me ever, by his work, one of the greatest men, and most 
worthy of admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adver- 
sity I ever prayed, that God would give him strength ; for great- 
ness he could not want. Neither could I condole in a word or 
syllable for him, as knowing no accident could do harm to virtue, 
but rather help to make it manifest." The Discoveries appeared 
in the folio of 1641. Bacon died, April 9th, 1626, in the sixty- 
sixth year of his age. The parliamentary sentence, under which 
he had suffered more than three years, was remitted in the begin- 
ning of 1624, by the command of James, who expired at Theo- 
balds in the spring of the following year. A very ample and in- 
teresting narrative of the proceedings against Lord Bacon, and of 
the evidence adduced to support the charge of bribery, may be 
seen in Basil Montagu's edition of his works, vol. xvi. (Life.) 
After his fall, his annual income appears to have comprised a pen- 
sion from the crown of 1200^., 6001. from the Alienation Office, and 
700^. from his own estate. The pension he retained unto his 
death. From the king he probably derived pecuniary assistance ; 
and Buckingham, in one of his letters, communicates the consent 
of James " to yield unto the three years' advance." But his dis- 
position was munificent, and his embarrassments frequent. 

This address to James is supposed to have been written above 
eighteen months after Bacon's retirement. 



64 



LORD BACON 



May it please your most excellent Majesty, 

In the midst of my misery, which is rather assuaged 
by remembrance than by hope, my chiefest worldly comfort 
is to think, that since the time I had the first vote of the 
Commons House of Parliament for commissioner of the 
union, until ihe time that I was, this last parliament, chosen 
by both houses for their messenger to your majesty in 
the petition of religion, (which two were my first and last 
services,) I was evermore so happy as to have my poor services 
graciously accepted by your majesty, and likewise not to have 
had any of them miscarry in my hands. Neither of which 
points I can anyways take to myself, but ascribe the former 
to your majesty's goodness, and the latter to your prudent 
directions, which I was ever careful to have and keep. For 
as I have often said to your majesty, I was towards you 
but as a bucket and a cistern, to draw forth and conserve ; 
yourself was the fountain. Unto this comfort of nineteen 
years' prosperity, there succeeded a comfort even in my greatest 
adversity, somewhat of the same nature ; which is, that in 
those offences wherewith I was charged, there was not any one 
that had special relation to your majesty, or any of your par- 
ticular commandments. For as towards Almighty God there 
are offences against the first and second table, and yet all 
against God : so with the servants of kings there are offences 
more immediate against the sovereign, although all offences 
against law are also against the king. Unto which comfort 
there is added this circumstance, that as my faults were not 
against your majesty otherwise than as all faults are ; so my 
fall was not your majesty's act, otherwise than as all acts of 
justice are yours. This I write not to insinuate with your 
majesty, but as a most humble appeal to your majesty's 
gracious remembrance, how honest and direct you have 
ever found me in your service. Whereby I have an assured 
belief, that there is in your majesty's own princely thoughts> 



TO JAMES THE FIRST. 65 

a great deal of serenity and clearness to me your majesty's 
now prostrate and cast-down servant. 

Neither, my most gracious sovereign, do I, by this men- 
tion of my services, lay claim to your princely grace and 
bounty, though the privilege of calamity doth bear that form 
of petition. I know well, had they been much more, they 
had been but my bounden duty; nay, I must also confess, 
that they were from time to time, far above my merit, over 
and super-rewarded by your majesty's benefits, which you 
heaped upon me. Your majesty was and is that master to me, 
that raised and advanced me nine times : thrice in dignity, and 
six times in offices. The places were, indeed, the painfullest 
of all your services; but then they had both honour and profits; 
and the then profits might have maintained my now honour, 
if I had been wise. Neither was your majesty's immediate 
liberality wanting towards me in some gifts, if I may hold 
them. All this I do most thankfully acknowledge, and do 
herewith conclude, that for anything arising from myself to 
move your eye of pity towards me, there is much more in my 
present misery, than in my past services ; save that the same 
your majesty's goodness, that may give relief to the one, may 
give value to the other. 

And, indeed, if it may please your majesty, this theme of 
my misery is so plentiful as it need not be coupled with any 
thing else. I have been somebody by your majesty's singular 
and undeserved favour, even the prime officer of your king- 
dom. Your majesty's arm hath been over mine in council, 
when you presided at the table ; so near I was ! I have 
borne your majesty's image in metal, much more in heart. 
I was never, in nineteen years' service, chidden by your 
majesty ; but, contrariwise often overjoyed, when your ma- 
jesty would sometimes say, I was a good husband for you, 
though none for myself; sometimes, that I had a way to deal 
in business "suavihus modis," which was the way which was 
most according to your own heart; and other most gracious 

c 3 



DO LORD BACON 

speeches of affection and trust, which I feed on to this day. 
But why should I speak of these things which are now 
vanished ? but only the better to express my downfall. For 
now it is thus with me : I am a year and a half old in misery; 
though I must ever acknowledge, not without some mixture 
of your majesty's grace and mercy. For I do not think it 
possible that any whom you once loved should be totally 
miserable. Mine own means, through mine own improvi- 
dence, are poor and weak, little better than my father left me. 
The poor things that I have had from your majesty, are either 
in question or at courtesy. My dignities remain marks of 
your past favour, but burdens of my present fortune. The 
poor remnants which I had of my former fortunes in plate or 
jewels, I have spread upon poor men unto whom I owed, 
scarce leaving myself a convenient subsistence ; So as to con- 
clude, I must pour out my misery before your majesty, so 
far as to say, Si deseris tu, perimus. 

But as I can offer to your majesty's compassion little 
arising from myself to move you, except it be my extreme 
misery, which I have truly laid open ; so looking up to your 
majesty's own self, I should think that I committed Cain's 
fault if I should despair. Your majesty is a king whose 
heart is as inscrutable for secret motions of goodness, as for 
depth of wisdom. You are creator-like, factive, not destruc- 
tive : you are the prince in whom hath ever been noted an 
aversion against any thing that savoured of a hard heart ; as, 
on the other side, your princely eye was wont to meet with 
any motion that was made on the relieving part. Therefore, 
as one that hath had the happiness to know your majesty 
near-hand, I have, most gracious sovereign, faith enough for a 
miracle, and much more for a grace, that your majesty will 
not suffer your poor creature to be utterly defaced, nor blot 
the name quite out of your book, upon which your sacred 
hand hath been so oft for new ornaments and additions. 
Unto this degree of compassion,! hope God above, (of whose 



TO JA3IES THE FIRST. 67 

mercy towards rne, both in my prosperity and adversity, I 
have had great testimonies and pledges, though mine own 
manifold and wretched unthankf illnesses might have averted 
them,) will dispose your princely heart already prepared to 
all piety. And why should I not think, but that thrice 
noble prince who would have pulled me out of the fire of a 
sentence, will help to pull me (if I may use that homely phrase) 
out of the mire of an abject and sordid condition in my last 
days : And that excellent favourite of yours, the goodness of 
whose nature contendeth with the greatness of his fortune, and 
who counteth it a prize, a second prize, to be a good friend, 
after that prize which he carrieth to be a good servant, will 
kiss your hands with joy for any work of piety you shall do 
for me. And as all commiserable persons, (especially such 
as find their hearts void of all malice,) are apt to think that 
all men pity them ; I assure myself that the lords of your 
council, who, out of their wisdom and nobleness, cannot but 
be sensible of human events, will in this way which I go 
for the relief of my estate, further and advance your majesty's 
goodness towards me; for there is, as I conceive, a kind of 
fraternity between great men that are, and those that have 
been, being but the several tenses of one verb. Nay, I do 
farther presume, that both houses of parliament will love their 
justice the better, if it end not in my ruin; for I have been 
often told by many of my lords, as it were in the way of 
excusing the severity of the sentence, that they knew they 
left me in good hands. And your majesty knoweth well 
I have been all my life long acceptable to those assemblies; 
not by flattery, but^>y moderation, and by honest expressing 
of a desire to have all things go fairly and well. 

But if it may please your majesty, (for saints I shall give 
them reverence, but no adoration; my address is to your 
majesty, the fountain of goodness,) your majesty shall, by the 
grace of God, not feel that in gift which I shall extremely 
feel in help ; for my desires are moderate, and my courses 



DO LORD BA.CON TO JAMES THE FIRST. 

measured to a life orderly and reserved, hoping still to do 
your majesty honour in my way : only I most humbly beseech 
your majesty to give me leave to conclude with those words 
which necessity speaketh : Help me, dear sovereign, lord and 
master, and pity me so far as I that have borne a bag, be not 
now in my age forced in effect to bear a wallet ; nor that I, 
that desire to live to study, may not be driven to study to 
live. I most humbly crave pardon of a long letter after a 
long silence. God of heaven ever bless, preserve, and prosper 
your majesty. Your majesty's poor ancient servant and 
beadsman. 

Fr. St. Alb. 



LETTER IX. 



James Howell to the Countess of Sutherland. — 
The Assassination of Buckingham. 

Howell was born in 1594, and from the free school of Hereford 
was sent to Jesus College, Oxford, from whence, in 1613, he came 
to London, as Wood says, with his fortune to make. In 1629, he 
visited the continent, in the capacity of agent to a glass manufac- 
tory. His route lay through France, Italy, Spain, Holland, and 
the Netherlands. " Thank God," he used to say, " I have this 
fruit of my travels, that I can pray to Him every day of the week 
in separate languages, and upon Sunday in seven !" After a life of 
chequered fortunes, Howell found himself in the Fleet prison. 
Having at length obtained his release, he was appointed to the 
office of historiographer to Charles the Second. He did not, how- 
ever, long enjoy his appointment ; he died in 1666, and was buried 
in the Temple church. Howel, during many years of his life, 
was an author by profession, and numerous works, chiefly upon 
temporary topics, show that he only wrote to live. His Familiar 
Letters are alone remembered. Thomas Warton considered them, 
after Bishop Hall, the second published correspondence in the lan- 
guage; discovering a variety of literature, and abounding with 
agreeable and instructive information. Respecting Felton, Mr. 
D' Israeli has communicated some interesting particulars. He says 



JAMES HOWELL TO THE COUNTESS OF SUTHERLAND. 69 

that his passage to London, after the assassination of the duke, 
resembled a triumph; women held up their children to behold 
him; and one old woman exclaimed, " God bless thee, little David." 



Madam, Stamford, 25 Aug, 1628. 

I lay yesternight at the Post-House at Stilton, and this 
morning betimes the post-master came to my bed's head and 
told me the duke of Buckingham was slain : my faith was 
not then strong enough to believe it, till an hour ago I met 
in the way with my lord of Rutland, (your brother,) riding 
post towards London, it pleased him to alight and show me 
a letter, wherein there was an exact relation of all the circum- 
stances of this sad tragedy. Upon Saturday last, which was 
but next before yesterday, being Bartholomew eve, the duke 
did rise up in a well-disposed humour out of his bed and cut 
a caper or two, and being ready, and having been under the 
barbers hands, (where the murderer had thought to have done 
the deed, for he was leaning upon the window all the while,) 
he went to breakfast attended by a great company of com- 
manders, where Monsieur Soubize came unto him and whispered 
him in the ear that Rochelle was relieved; the duke seemed 
to slight the news, which made some think that Soubize went 
away discontented. After breakfast, the duke going out, 
Colonel Fryer stepped before him, and stopping him upon 
some business, one Lieutenant Felton being behind, made a 
thrust, with a common ten-penny knife, over Fryers arm, at 
the duke, which lighted so fatally that he slit his heart in 
two, leaving the knife sticking in the body. The duke took 
out the knife and threw it away, and laying his hand on his 
sword and drawing it half out, said, " The villain has killed 
me !" (meaning as some think Colonel Fryer,) for there had 
been some difference betwixt them; so reeling against a 
chimney, he fell down dead. The duchess being with child, 
hearing the noise below, came in her night-gears from her 
bed-chamber, which was in an upper room, to a kind of rail, 



70 JAMES HOWELL TO THE COUNTESS OF SUTHERLAND. 

and thence beheld him weltering in his own blood. Felton 
had lost his hat in the crowd, wherein there was a paper 
sewed, wherein he declared, that the reason which moved 
him to this act was no grudge of his own, though he had 
been far behind for his pay and had been put by his captain's 
place twice, but in regard he thought the duke an enemy to 
the state, because he was branded in parliament; therefore 
what he did was for the public good of his country. Yet he 
got clearly down, and so might have gone to his horse, which 
was tied to a hedge hard by; but he was so amazed that he 
missed his way and so struck into the pastry, where, although 
the cry went that some Frenchman had done it, he, thinking 
the word was Felton, boldly confessed that it was he that had 
done the deed, and so he was in their hands. Jack Stamford 
would have run at him, but he was kept off by Mr. Nicholas ; 
so being carried up to a tower, Captain Mince tore off his 
spurs, and asking how he durst attempt such an act, making 
him believe the duke was not dead, he answered boldly that 
he knew he was despatched, for it was not he, but the hand of 
heaven that gave the stroke; and though his whole body had 
been covered over with armour of proof, he could not have 
avoided it. Captain Charles Price went post presently to 
the king, four miles off, who being at prayers on his knees 
when it was told him, yet never stirred, nor was he disturbed 
a whit till all divine service was done. This was the relation, 
as far as my memory could bear, in my lord of Rutland's letter, 
who willed me to remember him to your ladyship, and tell 
you he was going to comfort your niece, (the duchess,) as 
fast as he could. And so I have sent the truth of this 
sad story to your ladyship, as fast as I could by this post, 
because I cannot make that speed myself, in regard of some 
business I have to despatch for my lord in the way: so I 
humbly take my leave, and rest your ladyship's most dutiful 
servant. 

J. H. 



BISHOP HALL TO LORD DENNY. 71 

LETTER X. 

Bishop Hall to Lord Denny. — An Account of his 
Manner of Life. 

Hall was not justified in calling himself the first English 
satirist, for he had been preceded by Lodge in 1593 ; but he intro- 
duced a precision, a force, and a harmony, of which few previous 
examples had been given. His claim, however, to the earliest 
publication of Epistles in our language cannot be disputed. " Fur- 
ther," he says in the Dedication to Prince Henry, " which these 
times account not the least praise, your grace shall herein perceive 
a new fashion of discourse by Epistles; new to our language; 
usual to all others : and so as novelty is never without plea of use, 
more free, more familiar. Thus we do but talk with our friends 
by our pen, and express ourselves no whit less easily; somewhat 
more digestedly." The Latin Letters of Ascham do not of course 
interfere with the bishop's priority. 

Lord Denny, afterwards Earl of Norwich, was the bountiful 
patron to whom Hall was indebted for the living of Waltham, 
where he passed more than twenty years of his laborious and 
Christian life. 



Every day is a little life; and our whole life is but a day 
repeated; whence it is, that old Jacob numbers his life by 
days; and Moses desires to be taught this point of holy arith- 
metic, to number not his years, but his days. Those, there- 
fore, that dare lose a day, are dangerously prodigal; those 
that dare mispend it, desperate. We can best teach others by 
ourselves: let me tell your lordship how I would pass my 
days, whether common or sacred; that you, (or whosoever 
others overhearing me,) may either approve my thriftiness, or 
correct my errors; to whom is the account of my hours either 
more due, or more known ? All days are his who gave time a 
beginning and continuance; yet some he hath made ours; not 
to command, but to use. In none may we forget him; in 
some w T e must forget all, besides him. First, therefore, I 
desire to awake at those hours, not when I will, but when I 



72 BISHOP HALL 

must; pleasure is not a fit rule for rest, but health; neither 
do I consult so much with the sun, as mine own necessity, 
whether of body, or in that of the mind. If this vassal could 
well serve me waking, it should never sleep; but now it must 
be pleased, that it may be serviceable. Now, when sleep is 
rather driven away than leaves me, I would ever awake with 
God; my first thoughts are for him, who hath made the night 
for rest, and the day for travail; and as he gives, so blesses 
both. If my heart be early seasoned with his presence, it 
will savour of him all day after. While my body is dressing, 
not with an effeminate curiosity, nor yet with rude neglect, 
my mind addresses itself to her ensuing task, bethinking what 
is to be done, and in what order; and marshalling (as it may) 
my hours with my work; that done, after somewhile medi- 
tation, I walk up to my masters and companions, my books; 
and sitting down amongst them, with the best contentment, 
I dare not reach forth my hand to salute any of them, till I 
have first looked up to heaven, and craved favour of him to 
whom all my studies are duly referred; without whom I can 
neither profit nor labour. After this, out of no over great 
variety, I call forth those which may best fit my occasions; 
wherein I am not scrupulous of age. Sometimes I put my- 
self to school to one of those ancients, whom the church hath 
honoured with the name of Fathers; whose volumes I con- 
fess not to open, without a sacred reverence of their holiness 
and gravity ; sometimes to those later doctors, which want 
nothing but age to make them classical: always to God's 
Book. That day is lost whereof some hours are not im- 
proved in those Divine Monuments: others, I turn over out 
of choice; these, out of duty. Ere I can have sate unto 
weariness, my family, having now overcome all household 
distractions, invites me to our common devotions, not without 
some short preparation. These, heartily performed, send me up 
with a more strong and cheerful appetite to my former work, 
which I find made easy to me by intermission and variety. 



TO LORD DENNY. 73 

Now, therefore, can I deceive the hours with change of plea- 
sures, that is, of labours. One while, mine eyes are busied; 
another while my hand ; and sometimes my mind takes the 
burden from them both; wherein I would imitate the skil- 
fullest cooks, which make the best dishes with manifold mix- 
tures. One hour is spent in textual divinity, another in 
controversy: histories relieve them both. Now, when the 
mind is weary of other labours, it begins to undertake her 
own; sometimes it meditates and winds up for future use; 
sometimes it lays forth her conceits into present discourse; 
sometimes for itself, ofter for others. Neither know I whe- 
ther it works or plays in these thoughts; I am sure no sport 
hath more pleasure, no work more use; only the decay of a 
weak body makes me think these delights insensibly labo- 
rious. Thus could I all day, (as ringers use,) make myself 
music with changes, and complain sooner of the day for short- 
ness, than of the business for toil; were it not that this faint 
monitor interrupts me still in the midst of my busy pleasures, 
and enforces me both to respite and repast. I must yield to 
both ; while my body and mind are joined together in unequal 
couples, the better must follow the weaker. Before my 
meals, therefore, and after, I let myself loose from all 
thoughts; and now, would forget that I ever studied; a full 
mind takes away the body's appetite, no less than a full body 
makes a dull and unwieldy mind; company, discourse, recrea- 
tions, are now seasonable and welcome; these prepare me for 
a diet, not gluttonous, but medicinal; the palate may not be 
pleased, but the stomach; nor that for its own sake: neither 
would I think any of these comforts worth respect in them- 
selves, but in their use, in their end; so far as they may 
enable me to better things. If I see any dish to tempt my 
palate, I fear a serpent in that apple, and would please my- 
self in a wilful denial; I rise capable of more, not desirous; 
not now immediately from my trencher to my book; but 
after some intermission. Moderate speed is a sure help to all 



74 BISHOP HALL 

proceedings; where those things which are prosecuted with 
violence of endeavour, or desires, either succeed not, or con- 
tinue not. 

After my latter meal my thoughts are slight: only my 
memory may be charged with her task, of recalling what was 
committed to her custody in the day; and my heart is busy 
in examining my hands and mouth, and all other senses, of 
that day's behaviour. And, now the evening is come, no 
tradesman doth more carefully take in his wares, clear his 
shop-board, and shut his windows, than I would shut up my 
thoughts, and clear my mind. That student shall live mi- 
serably which, like a camel, lies down under his burden. All 
this done, calling together my family, we end the day with 
God. Thus do we rather drive away the time before us, than 
follow it. I grant neither is my practice worthy to be exem- 
plary, neither are our callings proportionable. The lives of a 
nobleman, of a courtier, of a scholar, of a citizen, of a coun- 
tryman, differ no less than their dispositions; yet must all 
conspire in honest labour. 

Sweet is the destiny of all trades, whether of the brows, 
or of the mind; God never allowed any man to do nothing. 
How miserable is the condition of those men, which spend 
the time as if it were given them, and not lent; as if hours 
were waste creatures, and such as never should be accounted 
for; as if God would take this for a good bill of reckoning: 
" Item, spent upon my pleasures forty years !" These men 
shall once find that no blood can privilege idleness, and that 
nothing is more precious to God than that which they desire 
to cast away, — time. Such are my common days; but God's 
day calls for another respect. The same sun arises on this day, 
and enlightens it; yet, because that Sun of Righteousness 
arose upon it, and gave a new life unto the world in it, and 
drew the strength of God's moral precept unto it, therefore 
justly do we sing with the Psalmist, — This is the day which 
the Lord hath made. Now, I forget the world, and in a sort 



TO LORD DENNY. J5 

myself; and deal with my wonted thoughts, as great men 
use, who at some times of their privacy, forbid the access of 
all suitors. Prayer, meditation, reading, hearing, preaching, 
singing, good conference, are the businesses of this day, which 
I dare not bestow on any work, or pleasure, but heavenly. 

I hate superstition on the one side, and looseness on the 
other; but I find it hard to offend in too much devotion; easy 
in profaneness. The whole week is sanctified by this day; 
and, according to my care of this, is my blessing on the rest. 
I show your Lordship what I would do, and what I ought; 
I commit my desires to the imitation of the weak; my actions, 
to the censures of the wise and holy ; my weaknesses, to the 
pardon and redress of my merciful God. 



LETTER XL 

Oliver Cromwell' to Col. Hacker. — Religious Soldiers, 

It was in this year, 1650, that the resignation of Fairfax 
opened to Cromwell the path to supreme power. The brief com- 
munication to Colonel Hacker is highly characteristic of the 
writer. 



Sir, 

I have the best consideration I can for the present, in 
this business ; and although I believe Capt. Hubbert is a 
worthy man, and hear so much, yet as the case stands, I can- 
not, with satisfaction to myself and some others, revoke the 
commission I had given to Capt. Empson, without offence to 
them, and reflection upon my own judgment. I pray let 
Capt. Hubbert know I shall not be unmindful of him, and 
that no disrespect is intended to him. But, indeed, I was 
not satisfied with your last speech to me about Empson, that 
he was a better preacher than a fighter, or soldier, or words 
to that effect. Truly I think, that he that prays and preaches 



76 OLIVER CROMWELL TO COL. HACKER. 

best, will fight best. I know nothing will give like courage 
and confidence, as the knowledge of God in Christ will ; and 
I bless God to see any in this army able and willing to impart 
the knowledge they have for the good of others. -And I 
expect it be encouraged by all Chief Officers in this Army 
especially; and I hope you will do so. I pray receive Capt. 
Empson lovingly. I dare assure you he is a good man, and a 
good officer. I would we had no worse. 

I rest, your loving friend, 
Dec. 25, 1650. O. Cromwell. 



LETTER XII. 

Jeremy Taylor to John Evelyn. — Consoling him 
for the loss of his Children. 

Bishop Heber was unable to trace the origin of the friendship 
between Taylor and Evelyn ; the earliest notice of Taylor in his 
Diary, occurs April 15, 1654 : — " I went to London to hear the 
famous Dr. Jeremy Taylor, (since Bishop of Down and Connor,) 
at St. Greg., on Matt. vi. 48, concerning evangelical perfection." 
On the 18th of March 1655, we find him visiting London, "on 
purpose to hear that excellent preacher, Dr. Jeremy Taylor, on 
Matt. xiv. 17, showing what were the conditions of obtaining 
eternal life ; also concerning abatements for unavoidable infirmities, 
how cast on the accompt of the Cross." On the 31st of the same 
month, he visited Taylor, " to confer with him about some spiri- 
tual matters, using him thenceforward," as his ghostly father. That 
Taylor derived pecuniary aid from Evelyn, is apparent from his 
own correspondence. In a letter dated May 15, 1657, he thanks 
him " for a letter and a token : full of humanity and sweetness," 
he says, " that was ; and this of charity. I knew," he adds, " it is 
more blessed to give than to receive ; and yet, as I no way pine at 
that Providence which gives me to receive ; so neither can I envy 
that felicity of yours, not only that you can, but that you do 
give." 

When Taylor addressed the following consolation to his friend, 
he was confined in the Tower, through the indiscretion, as Heber 



JEREMY TAYLOR TO JOHN EVELYN. 77 

notices, of his bookseller Roystpn, who, by prefixing to the Col- 
lection of Offices a print of onr Saviour in the attitude of prayer, 
had subjected Taylor to fine and imprisonment, under the provi- 
sions of an act recently passed. He probably owed his release to 
the intervention of Evelyn ; and we read of his visiting Says 
Court on the 25th of February. Taylor, in the July of the previous 
year, had communicated to Evelyn the death of one of his own 
children : "lam in some little disorder by reason of the death 
of a little child, a boy that lately made us very glad ; but now 
he rejoices in his little orb, while we think, and sigh, and long to 
be as safe as he is." 



Dear Sir, 

If dividing and sharing griefs were like the cutting of 
rivers, I dare say to you, you would find your stream much 
abated ; for I account myself to have a great cause of sorrow, 
not only in the diminution of the numbers of your joys and 
hopes, but in the loss of that pretty person, your strangely 
hopeful boy. I cannot tell all my own sorrows without add- 
ing to yours ; and the causes of my real sadness in your loss, 
are so just and so reasonable, that I can no otherwise comfort 
you but by telling you, that you have very great cause to 
mourn : so certain it is that grief does propagate as fire does. 
You have enkindled my funeral torch, and by joining mine 
to yours, I do but increase the flame. "Hoc me male urit" is 
the best signification of my apprehension of your sad story. 
But, sir, I cannot choose, but I must hold another and a 
brighter flame to you — it is already burning in your heart ; 
and if I can but remove the dark side of the lanthorn, you 
have enough within you to warm yourself, and to shine to 
others. Remember, sir, your two boys are two bright stars, and 
their innocence is secured, and you shall never hear evil of them 
again. Their state is safe, and heaven is given to them upon 
very easy terms ; nothing but to be born and die. It will cost 
you more trouble to get where they are ; and, amongst other 
things, one of the hardnesses will be, that you must overcome 



78 JEREMY TAYLOR 

even this just and reasonable grief; and, indeed, though, the grief 
hath but too reasonable a cause, yet it is much more reason- 
able that you master it. For besides that they are no losers, 
but you are the person that complains, do but consider what 
you would have suffered for their interest ; you [would] have 
suffered them to go from you to be great princes in a strange 
country; and if you can be content to suffer your own inconve- 
nience for their interest, you command your worthiest love, 
and the question of mourning is at an end. But you have said 
and done well, when you look upon it as a rod of God ; and 
He that so smites here, will spare hereafter ; and if you, by 
patience and submission, imprint the discipline upon your own 
flesh, you kill the cause, and make the effect very tolerable ; 
because it is in some sense chosen, and therefore, in no sense 
insufferable. Sir, if you do not look to it, time will snatch your 
honour from you, and reproach you for not effecting that by 
Christian philosophy, which time will do alone. And if you 
consider, that of the bravest men in the world, we find the 
seldom est stories of their children, and the Apostles had none, 
and thousands of the worthiest persons that sound most in 
story, died childless : you will find it is a rare act of 
Providence so to impose upon worthy men a necessity of per- 
petuating their names by worthy actions and discourses, 
governments, and reasonings. If the breach be never re- 
paired, it is because God does not see it fit to be ; and if you 
will be of his mind, it will be much the better. But, sir, if 
you will pardon my zeal and passion for your comfort, I will 
readily confess that you have no need of any discourse from 
me to comfort you. Sir, now you have an opportunity of 
serving God by passive graces ; strive to be an example and a 
comfort to your lady, and by your wise counsel and comfort, 
stand in the breaches of your own family, and make it appear 
that you are more to her than ten sons. Sir, by the assists 
ance of Almighty God, I purpose to wait on you some time 
next week, that I may be a witness of your Christian courage 






TO JOHN EVELYN. 79 

and bravery ; and that I may see that God never displeases 
yon, as long as the main stake is preserved ; I mean your 
hopes and confidences of heaven. Sir, I shall pray for all 
that you can want, that is some degrees of comfort, and a pre- 
sent mind ; and shall always do you honour, and fain also 
would do you service, if it were in the power, as it is in the 
affections and desires of, 

Dear Sir, 

Your most affectionate and 
obliged friend and servant, 
Feb. 17, 1657-8. J ER . Taylor. 



LETTER XIII. 

Cowley to Mr. S. L. — The Danger of Procrastination. 

If Sprat, to whom Cowley bequeathed by his will, the revision 
and collection of his works, had given to us the familiar letters of 
his friend, we might have reaped a richer harvest from "those 
seven or eight years" in which he was " concealed in his beloved 
obscurity." But Sprat was determined, to borrow his own meta- 
phor, that the soul of the poet should not appear undressed ; and 
the world has been defrauded of some of the tenderest and purest 
sentiments which ever flowed from a human heart. One of his 
letters is printed in the correspondence of Evelyn ; Mr. D'Israeli 
has recovered another, and the following appears in the folio edition 
of his works. Of such a writer, nothing should be lost ; — his verse, 
with all its extravagancies of principle, abounds in beautiful 
images, and ingenious novelties of fancy; but his prose is almost 
perfect ; clear, animated, unaffected, and eloquent. Nor was the 
man less admirable than the writer ; wherever he went, the love 
of friends seems to have waited upon him. Evelyn, a severe and 
a competent judge, mentions his death in terms of affection and 
sorrow. He says in his Diary : — >" 1 Aug. (1667,) I received the 
sad news of Abr. Cowley's death ; that incomparable poet, and 
virtuous man, my very dear friend. 3. Went to Mr. Cowley's 
funeral ; his corps lay at Wallington House ; and was thence con- 
veyed to Westm r . Abbey in a hearse with 6 horses, and all funeral 



80 COWLEY 

decency, neare a hundred coaches of noblemen and persons of 
qualitie following ; among these all the wits of the towne, diver i 
bishops and cleargymen. He was interred next Geffry Chaucer, 
and neare Spenser." 



I am glad that you approve and applaud my design of 
withdrawing myself from all tumult and business of the 
world ; and consecrating the little rest of my time to those 
studies, to which nature had so motherly inclined me, and 
from which fortune, like a step-mother, has so long detained 
me. But nevertheless, (you say, which, But, is cerugo mera, 
a rust which spoils the good metal it grows upon. But you 
say,) you would advise me not to precipitate that resolution, 
but to stay a while longer with patience and complaisance, 
till I had gotten such an estate as might afford me (according 
to the saying of that person whom you and I love very 
much, and would believe as soon as another man) cum dig- 
nitaie otium. This were excellent advice to Joshua, who could 
bid the sun stay too. But there 's no fooling with life when 
it is once turned beyond forty. The seeking for a fortune, 
then, is but a desperate after-game ; 'tis a hundred to one if 
a man fling two sixes and recover all, especially, if his hand be 
no luckier than mine. There is some help for all the defects 
of fortune, for if a man cannot attain to the length of his 
wishes, he may have remedy by cutting of them shorter. 
Epicurus writes a letter to Idomeneus, (who was then a very 
powerful, wealthy, and, it seems, bountiful person,) to recom- 
mend to him who had made so many rich, one Pythocles, a friend 
of his, whom he desired might be made a rich man too; " but 
I entreat you that you would not do it just the same way as 
you have done to many less deserving persons, but in the 
most gentlemanly manner of obliging him, which is not to add 
any thing to his estate, but to take something from his 
desires." The sum of this is, that for the uncertain hopes of 
some conveniences, we ought not to defer the execution of a 



TO S. L. 81 

work that is necessary, especially when the use of those 
things which we would stay for, may otherwise he supplied, 
but the loss of time never recovered. Nay, farther yet, 
thou oh we were sure to obtain all that we had a mind to, 
thouo-h we were sure of getting never so much by continuing 
the game, yet when the light of life is so near going out, and 
ought to be so precious, Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandslle, the 
play is not worth the expense of the candle. After having 
been long tost in a tempest, if our masts be standing, and we 
have still sail and tackling enough to carry us to our port, it 
is no matter for the want of streamers and top-gallants. Titer e 
veils, totos pande sinus. A gentleman in our late civil wars, 
when his quarters were beaten up by the enemy, was taken 
prisoner, and lost his life afterwards, only by staying to put 
on a band and adjust his periwig; he would escape like a 
person of quality, or not at all, and died the noble martyr of 
ceremony and gentility. I think your counsel of Festina lente 
is as ill to a man who is flying from the world, as it would 
have been to that unfortunate well-bred gentleman who was 
so cautious as not to fly undecently from his enemies ; and 
therefore I prefer Horace's advice before yours, 
Sapere, aude, incipe. 

Begin ; the getting out of doors is the greatest part of the 
journey. Varro teaches us that Latin proverb, — Portam 
itineri longissimam esse: But to return to Horace, 

Sapere, aude, 

Incipe, vivendi qui recte prorogat horam, 
Rusticus expectat dum labitur amnis, at ille 
Labitur, et labetur in omne voliibilis cevum. 

Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise ; 

He who defers this work from day to day, 

Does on a river's bank expecting stay, 

Till the whole stream which stopt him should be gone, 

That rims, and as it runs, forever will run on. 

Csesar (the man of expedition above all others,) was so far 



82 COWLEY 

from this folly, that whensoever, in a journey, he was to cross 
any river, he never went one foot out of his way for a bridge, 
or a ford, or a ferry, but flung himself into it immediately, 
and swam over ; and this is the course we ought to imitate, 
if we meet with any stops in our way to happiness. Stay 
till the waters are low, stay till some boats come by to trans- 
port you, stay till a bridge be built for you ; you had better 
stay till the river be quite past. Persius (who, you use to say, 
you do not know whether he be a good poet or no, because 
you cannot understand him, and whom therefore, I say, I 
know to be not a good poet), has an odd expression of these 
procrastinators, which, methinks, is full of fancy. 

Jam eras hesternum consumpsimus. Ecce aliud eras, 
Egerit hos annos. — Pers. Sat. 5. 

Our yesterday's to-morrow now is gone, 
And still a new to-morow does come on ; 
We by to-morrows draw up all our store, 
Till the exhausted well can yield no more. 

And now, I think I am even with you, for your otium cum 
dignitate and festina lente, and three or four other more of 
your new Latin sentences : if I should draw upon you all my 
forces out of Seneca and Plutarch upon this subject, I should 
overwhelm you ; but I leave those as Triary for your next 
charge. I shall only give you now a light skirmish out of an 
epigrammatist, your special good friend, and so Dale. 

Mart., Lib. 5, Ep. 59. 

To-morrow you will live, you always cry ; 
In what far country does this morrow lye, 
That 'tis so mighty long e'er it arrive ? 
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live ? 
'Tis so far-fetcht this morrow, that I fear 
'Twill be both very old and very dear ; 
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say, 
To-day itself's too late, the wise liv'd yesterday. 



TO S. L. 83 

Mart., Lib. 2. Ep. 90. 

WoiMer not, sir, (you who instruct the town 
In the true wisdom of the sacred gown,) 
That I make haste to live, and cannot hold 
Patiently out, till I grow rich and old. 
Life for delays and doubts no time does give, 
None ever yet made haste enough to live. 
Let him defer it, whose preposterous care 
Omits himself, and reaches to his heir ; 
Who does his father's bounded stores despise, 
And whom his own too never can suffice. 
My humble thoughts no glittering roofs require, 
Or rooms that shine with ought but constant fire. 
I well content the avarice of my sight 
With the fair gildings of reflected light : 
Pleasures abroad, the sport of nature yields 
Her living fountains, and her smiling fields. 
And then at home, what pleasure is't to see 
A little cleanly chearful familie : 
Which if a chaste wife crown, no less in her 
Than fortune, I the golden mean prefer ; 
Too noble, nor too wise, she should not be, 
No, nor too rich, too fair, too fond of me ; 
Thus let my life slide silently away, 
With sleep all night, and quiet all the day. 



LETTER XIV. 



Lord Rochester to the Honourable Henry Saville. — 
Contradicting the Report of his Death. 

A very striking resemblance may be discovered in the intellec- 
tual characters of Rochester and Byron ; a spirit of bitter and malig- 
nant scorn seems to have animated both. Of the genius of Rochester 
it has been observed by Hazlitt, — " His extravagant heedless 
levity has a sort of rude passionate enthusiasm in it ; his contempt for 
everything that others respect almost amounts to sublimity. His 
poem on ' Nothing' is itself a great work. His Epigrams were the 
bitterest, the least laboured, and the truest that ever were written." 

D 2 



84 LORD ROCHESTER TO HENRY SAVILLE. 

Dear Saville, 

This day I received the unhappy news of my own 
death and burial. But, hearing what heirs and successors 
were decreed me in my place, and chiefly in my lodgings, it 
was no small joy to me that those tidings prove untrue; my 
passion for living is so increased, that I omit no care of my- 
self, which, before, I never thought life worth the trouble 
of taking. The king, who knows me to be a very ill-natured 
man, will not think it an easy matter for me to die, now I 
live chiefly out of spite. Dear Mr. Saville, afford me some 
news from your land of the living, and though I have little 
curiosity to hear who's well, yet I would be glad my few 
friends are so, of whom you are no more the least than the 
leanest. I have better compliments for you, but that may 
not look so sincere as I would have you believe I am, when 
I profess myself 

Your faithful, affectionate, humble servant, 

Adderbury, near Banbury, Feb. ult. Rochester. 



LETTER XV. 
Dryden to Dennis. — His own Character. 

Dennis commenced his education for criticism very appropri- 
ately at Cambridge by attempting to " stab a person in the dark." 
For this assault he was expelled the college (Caius). The same 
impetuosity accompanied him to London, and he is reported to 
have signalized his first visit to the house of Mr. Montague by 
overturning the sideboard in the frenzy of intoxication. A sup- 
posed insult in the /Spectator awoke his hostility against Addison, 
and his attack upon Pope's Essay on Criticism obtained for his 
name the immortality of the Dunciad. It may be supposed that 
the admiration which Dennis professed for Dryden was sincerer 
than the flattery which the poet lavished upon the critic. Of his 
Pindaric Odes, so vehemently praised, the paraphrase of a part 
of the Te Deum is the best ; it is enlivened by a few gleams of 
fancy, and the versification is not deficient in variety and music. 



DRYDEN TO DENNIS. 85 

His prose, notwithstanding its roughness and vulgarity, is often 
racy and vigorous. Many political effusions have obtained ephe- 
meral popularity, without possessing the animation or truth of his 
Essay upon Public Spirit; and many a periodical writer has fluttered 
into notice, without displaying more originality or propriety of 
sentiment, than the readqr may find in The Grounds of Criticism 
in Poetry. 



My dear Mr. Dennis, 

When I read a letter so full of my commendation as 
your last, I cannot but consider you as the master of a vast 
treasure, who, having more than enough for yourself, are 
forced to ebb out upon your friends. You have, indeed, the 
best right to give them, since you have them in propriety; 
but they are no more mine when I receive them, than the 
light of the moon can be allowed to be her own, who shines 
but by the reflection of her brother. Your own poetry is a 
more powerful example to prove that the modern writers 
may enter into comparison with the ancients, than any which 
Perrault could produce in France; yet neither he, nor you, 
who are a better critic, can persuade me that there is any 
room left for a solid commendation at this time of the day, at 
least for me. If I undertake the translation of Virgil, the 
little which I can perform will show, at least, that no man is 
fit to write after him in a barbarous modern tongue : neither 
will his machines be of any service to a Christian poet. We 
see how ineffectually they have been tried by Tasso, and by 
Ariosto. Tis using them too dully if we only make devils of his 
gods: as if, for example, I would raise a storm, and make use 
of JEolus, with this only difference, of calling him Prince of 
the Air; what invention of mine would there be in this? or 
who would not see Virgil through me, and only the same 
trick played over again by a bungling juggler ? Boileau has 
w T ell observed, that it is an easy matter, in a Christian poem, 
for God to bring the devil to reason. I think I have given a 
better hint for new machines, in my Preface to Juvenal, 



db DRYDEN 

where I have particularly recommended two subjects; one, of 
King Arthur s conquest of the Saxons ; and the other, of the 
Black Prince in his conquest of Spain. But the Guardian 
Angels of monarchies and kingdoms are not to be touched by 
every hand. A man must be deeply conversant in the 
Platonic Philosophy to deal with them; and therefore I may 
reasonably expect that no poet of the age will presume to 
handle those machines, for fear of discovering his own igno- 
rance; or if he should, he might, perhaps, be ungrateful 
enough not to own me for his benefactor. After I have con- 
fessed thus much of our modern heroic poetry, I cannot but 
conclude with Mr. , that our English Comedy is far 

beyond anything of the ancients; and, notwithstanding . r 
irregularities, so is our Tragedy. Shakspeare had a genius for 
it; and we know, in spite of Mr. R., that genius alone is a 
greater virtue, (if I may so call it,) than all other qualifica- 
tions put together. You see what success this learned critic 
has found in the world, after his blaspheming Shakspeare. 
Almost all the faults which he has discovered, are truly there; 

yet who will read Mr. , or not read Shakspeare? For my 

own part, I reverence Mr. 's learning, but I detest his ill- 
nature and his arrogance. I, indeed, and such as I, have 
reason to be afraid of him; but Shakspeare has not. There 
is another part of poetry in which the English stand almost 
upon an equal foot with the ancients ; and 'tis that we call 
Pindaric, introduced, but not perfected, by our famous Mr. 
Cowley; and of this, sir, you are certainly one of the greatest 
masters; you have the sublimity of sense as well as sound, 
and know how far the boldness of a poet may lawfully extend. 
I could wish you would cultivate this kind of ode, and reduce 
it either to the same measure which Pindar used, or give new 
measures of your own : for, as it is, it looks like a vast tract 
of land, newly discovered; the soil is wonderfully fruitful, 
but unmanured, overstocked with inhabitants, but almost all 
savages, without laws, arts, arms, or policy. I remember 



TO DENNIS. 87 

poor Xat. Lee, who was then upon the verge of madness, yet 
made a sober and witty answer to a bad poet, who told him, 
"It was an easy thing to write like a madman." " No" said 
he, " 'tis very difficult to write like a madman, but 'tis a very 
easy thing to write like a fool." Otway and he are safe by 
death from all attacks ; but we, poor poets militant, (to use 
Mr. Cowley's expression,) are at the mercy of wretched 
scribblers; and when they cannot fasten upon our verses, they 
fall upon our morals, our principles of state and religion. For 
my principles of religion, I will not justify them to you: I 
knoAv yours are far different. For the same reason I shall 
say nothing of my principles of state. I believe you in yours 
follow the dictates of your reason, as I in mine do those of 
my conscience. If I thought myself in an error, I would 
retract it; I am sure that I suffer for them; and Milton makes 
even the devil say, that no creature is in love with pain. 
For my morals, betwixt man and man, I am not to be my 
own judge; I appeal to the world if I have deceived or 
defrauded any man; and for my private conversation, they 
who see me every day can be the best witnesses, whether or 
no it be blameless and inoffensive. Hitherto I have no reason 
to complain that men of either party shun my company. I 
have never been an impudent beggar at the doors of noble- 
men: my visits have, indeed, been too rare to be unaccept- 
able, and but just enough to testify my gratitude for their 
courtesy; which I have frequently received, but always un- 
asked, as themselves will witness. I have written more than I 
needed to you on this subject, for I dare say you justify me to 
yourself. As for that which I first intended for the principal 
subject of this letter, which is my friend's passion, and his 
design of marriage, on better consideration I have changed 
my mind; for having had the honour to see my dear friend 
'Wycherley's letter to him on that occasion, I find nothing to 
be added or amended. But as well as I love Mr. Wycherlev, 
I confess I love myself so well, that I will not show how 



OO DRYDEN TO DENNIS. 

much I am inferior to him in wit and judgment by under- 
taking anything after him. There is Moses and the Prophets 
in his council. Jupiter and Juno, as the poets tell us, made 
Tiresias their umpire, in a certain merry dispute which fell 
out in heaven betwixt them. Tiresias, you know, had been 
of both sexes, and therefore was a proper judge: our friend, 
Mr. Wycherley, is as competent an arbitrator ; he has been a 
bachelor, and married man, and is now a widower. Virgil 
says of Ceneus, 

Nunc vir, nunc femina Ceneus, 

Rursus et in veterem fato resoluta figuram. 

Yet I suppose he will not give any largo commendations to 
his middle state ; nor, as the sailor said, will be fond, after a 
shipwreck, to put to sea again. If my friend will adventure 
after this, I can but wish him a good wind, as being his, and 
am, My dear Mr. Dennis, 

Your most affectionate and most faithful servant, 

John Dryden. 



LETTER XVI. 

Sir John Suckling to a Nobleman. — Compliments. 

This letter has been commended by a competent critic, as a 
perfect specimen of finished courtliness, and superior to any com- 
position of a similar character in Pope's Letters. 



My noble Lord, 

Your humble servant had the honour to receive from 
your hand a letter, and had the grace upon the sight of it to 
blush ; I but then found my own negligence, and but now 
have the opportunity to ask pardon for it. We have ever 
since been upon a march, and the places we have come to, 
have afforded rather blood than ink ; and of all things, sheets 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING TO A NOBLEMAN. iiU 

have been the hardest to come by, especially those of paper. 
If these few lines shall have the happiness to kiss yonr hand, 
they can assure you, that he that sent them knows no one to 
whom he owes more obligation than to your Lordship, and 
to whom he would more willingly pay it ; and that it must 
be no less than necessity itself that can hinder him from often 
presenting it. Germany hath no whit altered me ; I am still 
the humble servant of my lord that I was ; and when I cease 
to be so, I must cease to be 

John Suckling. 



LETTER XVII. 



Sir George Etheredge to the Duke of Buckingham. — 
History of a German Widow. 

Etheredge, in a recent notice of his life, is said to have painted 
his own portrait in Sir Fopling Flutter, and that of his friend 
Rochester in Dorimant ; but Lockyer, Dean of Peterborough, an 
excellent story-teller, and who noted down every thing he heard, 
considered the poet to have designed Dorimant for his own picture. 
The comedy was condemned by Steele in the Spectator, where it 
was pronounced to be " nature, but nature in its utmost corruption 
and degradation." By his contemporaries he was styled " Gentle 
George," and the "refined Etheredge." His gay and playful 
humour shines most agreeably in this letter, written from Ratis- 
bon, where he had been appointed Envoy to the Duke of Bucking- 
ham. The play of his friend Sir Charles Sedley, which he mentions 
with such commendation, had nearly caused the death of its author. 
During the performance of Bettamira, we are told, "the roof of the 
theatre fell in, which produced considerable alarm in the house ;" 
but fortunately Sedley, who was slightly bruised, was the only 
person who suffered any injury from the accident. This circum- 
stance drew from his merry friend, Sir Fleetwood Shepherd, the 
observation, that there was so much fire in his play, that it blew 
up the poet, play-house, and all. " No, no," replied Sedley, " the 
play was so heavy, that it broke down the house, and buried the 
poet in the ruins." The praise of Sedley was a welcome topic to 

D 3 



90 SIR GEORGE ETHEREDGE 

Buckingham, who had often been delighted by his festive wit and 
conversational brilliancy, in which, according to Shad well, he was 
unrivalled. 



My Lord, 

I never enjoy myself so much as when I can steal 
a few moments from the hurry of business, to write to my 
friends in England ; and as there is none to whom I pay a 
profounder respect than to your Grace, wonder not if I 
afford myself the satisfaction of conversing with you by the 
way of letter — the only relief I have left me to support your 
absence at this distance, as often as I can find an opportunity. 
You may guess by my last, whether I do not pass my time 
very comfortably here; forced as I am, by my character, to 
spend the greater part of my time in squabbling and deliberat- 
ing with persons of beard and gravity, how to preserve the 
balance of Christendom, which would go well enough of 
itself, if the divines and ministers of princes would let it 
alone : and when I come home, spent and weary from the 

diet, I have no Lord D ts, or Sir Charles T ys, 

to sport away the evening with * * * *. J have been 
long enough in this town, one would think, to have made 
acquaintance enough with persons of both sexes, so as never 
to be at a loss how to pass the few vacant hours I can allow 
myself; but the terrible drinking that accompanies all visits, 
hinders me from conversing with the men so often as I would 
otherwise do * * * *. So that to deal freely with your 
Grace, among so many noble and wealthy families as we have 
in this town, I can only pretend to be truly acquainted but 
with one; the gentleman's name was Monsieur Hoffman, a 
frank, hearty, jolly companion. His father, one of the most 
eminent wine-merchants of the city, left him a considerable 
fortune, which he improved by marrying a French jeweller's 
daughter of Lyons. To give you his character in short, he 



TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 91 

was a sensible, ingenious man, and had none of his country's 
vices, which I impute to his having travelled abroad, and 
seen Italy, France, and England. His lady is a most accom- 
plished, ingenious person ; and, notwithstanding she is come 
into a place where so much formality and stiffness is practised, 
keeps up all the vivacity, air, and good-humour of France. 

I had been happy in my acquaintance with this family 
some months, when an ill-favoured action robbed me of the 
greatest happiness I had hitherto enjoyed in Germany ; the 
loss of which I can never sufficiently regret. Monsieur Hoff- 
man, about three weeks ago, going to make merry with some 
friends at a village some three leagues from this place, upon 
the Danube, by the unskilfulness or negligence of the water- 
men, the boat wherein he was, unfortunately chanced to over- 
set, and of some twenty persons, not one escaped to bring 
home the news, but a boy that miraculously saved himself 
by holding fast to the rudder, and so by the rapidity of the 
current was cast upon the other shore. 

I was sensibly afflicted at the destiny of my worthy 
friend, and so, indeed, were all that had the honour of know- 
ing him ; but his wife took on so extravagantly, that she, in 
a short time, was the only talk of city and country ; she 
refused to admit any visits from her nearest relations ; her 
chamber, her ante-chamber, and pro-ante-chamber, were hung 
with black ; nay, the very candles, her pens, and tea-table, 
wore the livery of grief; she refused all manner of suste- 
nance, and was so averse to the thoughts of living, that she 
talked of nothing but death ; in short, you may tell your in- 
genious friend, Monsieur de St. Evremont, that Petronius's 
Ephesian Matron, to whose story he has done so much justice 
in his noble translation, was only a type of our more obstinate, 
as well as unhappy, German widow. 

About a fortnight after this cruel loss (for I thought it 
would be labour lost to attack her grief in its first vehemence), 
I thought myself obliged, in point of honour and gratitude to 



92 SIR GEORGE ETHEREDGE 

the memory of my deceased friend, to make her a small visit, 
and condole with her ladyship upon this unhappy occasion; and 
though I had been told that she refused to see several persons 
who had gone to wait on her with the same errand, yet I 
presumed so much upon the friendship her late husband had 
always expressed for me, (not to mention the particular 
civilities I had received from her,) to think I should be ad- 
mitted to have a sight of her. Accordingly, I came to her 
house, sent up my name, and word was immediately brought 
me, that if I pleased I might go up to her. When I came 
into the room, I fancied myself in the territories of death, 
every thing looked so gloomy, so dismal, so melancholy. 
There was a grave Lutheran minister with her, that omitted 
no arguments to bring her to a more composed and more 
Christian disposition of mind. " Madam," says he, "you don't 
consider, that by abandoning yourself thus to despair, you 
actually rebel against Providence." " I can't help it," says 
she ; " Providence may even thank itself for laying so insup- 
portable a load upon me." " fie, Madam," cries the other, 
" this is downright impiety ; what would you say now, if 
heaven should punish it by some more exemplary visitation?" 
" That is impossible," replied the lady, sighing ; " and since 
it has robbed me of the only delight I had in this world, the 
only favour it can do, is to level a thunderbolt at my head, 
and put an end to all my sufferings." The parson, finding her 
in this extravagant strain, and seeing no likelihood of per- 
suading her to come to a better temper, got up from his seat, 
and took his leave of her. 

It came to my turn now, to try whether I was not capable 
of comforting her; and being convinced by so late an 
instance, that arguments brought from religion were not 
likely to work any extraordinary effects upon her, I resolved 
to attack her ladyship in a most sensible part, and represent 
to her the great inconveniences, not which her soul, but her 
body received from this inordinate sorrow. fi Madam," says 



TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 93 

I, to her, "next to my concern for your worthy husband's 
untimely death, I am grieved to see what an alteration the 
bemoaning his loss has occasioned in you." These words 
raising her curiosity to know what this alteration was, I thus 
continued my discourse. " In endeavouring, Madam, to ex- 
tinguish, or at least to alleviate your grief, than which no- 
thing can be more prejudicial to a beautiful woman, I intend a 
public benefit; for if the public is interested, as it most cer- 
tainly is, in the preserving of a beautiful face, that man does 
the public no little service who contributes most to its pre- 
servation." 

This odd beginning operated so wonderfully upon her, 
that she desired me to leave this general road of compliments, 
and explain myself more particularly to her. Upon this, 
(delivering myself with an unusual air of gravity, which, 
your Grace knows, I seldom carry about me in the company 
of ladies,) I told her that grief ruins the fairest faces sooner 
than any thing whatever ; and that as envy itself could not 
deny her face to be the most charming in the universe, so if 
she did not suffer herself to be comforted, she must soon 
expect to take her farewell of it. I confirmed this assertion, 
by telling her of one of the finest women we ever had in 
England, who did herself more injury in a fortnight's time, by 
lamenting her only brother's death, than ten years could 
possibly have done. That I had heard an eminent physician 
at Ley den say, that tears (having abundance of saline par- 
ticles in them), not only spoiled the complexion, but hastened 
wrinkles. " But, Madam," concluded I, " why should I give 
myself the trouble to confirm this by foreign instances, and 
by the testimonies of our most knowing doctors, when, alas ! 
your own face so fully justifies the truth of what I have said 
to you." 

" How !" replied our disconsolate widow, with a sigh that 
came from the bottom of her heart : " and is it possible that 
my just concern for my dear husband has wrought so cruel 



94 SIR GEORGE ETHEREDGE 

an effect upon me in so short a time ?" "With that, she 
ordered her gentlewoman to bring the looking-glass to her ; 
and having surveyed herself a few minutes in it, she told me, 
she was perfectly convinced that my notions were true ; " but," 
cries she, " what would you have us poor women do in these 
cases? For something," continued she, "we owe to the 
memory of the deceased, and something to the world, which 
expects at least the common appearance of grief from us." 
u By your leave, Madam," says I, " all this is a mistake, and 
no better; you owe nothing to your husband, since he is 
dead, and knows nothing of your lamentation. Besides, 
could you shed an ocean of tears upon his hearse, it would not 
do him the least service ; much less do you lie under any such 
obligations to the world, as to spoil a good face, only to com- 
ply with its tyrannous customs ; so, Madam, take care to 
preserve your beauty, and then, let the world say what it 
pleases ; your ladyship may be revenged of the world when- 
ever you see fit." " I am resolved," answers she, " to be 
entirely governed by you ; therefore, tell me frankly, what 
sort of course you would have me steer." " Why, Madam," 
says I, "in the first place, forget the defunct; and in order 
to bring that about, relieve nature, to which you have been 
unmerciful, with the most exquisite meats and the most 
generous wines." 

" Upon condition you will mess with me," cries our 
afflicted lady, " I will submit to your prescription." But 
why should I trouble your Grace with a narration in every 
particular ; in short, we had a noble regale that evening ; and 
our good widow pushed the glass so strenuously about, that 
her comforter (meaning myself) could hardly find the way to 
his coach. To conclude this farce, (which I am afraid begins 
to be too tedious to your Grace,) this Phoenix of her sex, 
this pattern of conjugal fidelity, two mornings ago, was 
married to a smooth-chinn'd ensign of Count Traumendorfs 
regiment, that has not a farthing in the world, but his pay, to 



TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 95 

depend on. I assisted at the ceremony, though I little 
imagined the lady would take the matrimonial receipt so 
soon. 

By my last packet from England, among a heap of 
nauseous trash, I received the Three Dukes of Dunstable ; 
which is really so monstrous and insipid, that I am sorry 
Lapland or Livonia had not the honour of producing it ; but 
if I did penance in reading it, I rejoiced to hear that it was 
so solemnly interred to the tune of catcalls. The Squire of 
Alsatia, however, which came by the following post, made 
me some amends for the cursed impertinence of the Three 

Dukes. And my witty friend Sir C S y's Bella- 

mira gave me that entire satisfaction, that I cannot read it 
over too often. 

They tell me my old acquaintance Mr. Dryden has left off 
the theatre, and wholly applies himself to the study of the 
controversies between the two churches ; pray heaven this 
strange alteration in him portends nothing disastrous to the 
state ! But I have long since observed, that poets do religion 
as little service by drawing their pens for it, as the divines do 
poetry, by pretending to versification. 

But I forget how troublesome I have been to your Grace ; 
I shall therefore conclude with assuring you, that I am, and 
to the last moment of my life shall be, ambitious of being, 
My Lord, 

Your Grace's most obedient, and most obliged servant, 

George Etheredge. 



96 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE TO 



LETTER XVIII. 



Sir William Temple to Lord Lisle. — Miscellaneous 
Remarks. 

When Johnson claimed for Temple the merit of being the first 
writer who gave a cadence to English prose, he showed a forget- 
fulnessof our elder literature, of which the only parallel is afforded 
by his criticism of Waller. Hume, with greater justice, commends 
the agreeableness of his manner ; and Mackintosh, its modern air. 
The first, however, admits his negligence, and the second his 
foreign idioms. Of all his productions, the Essay on Poetry is the 
best known, and most deserving of perusal. The thoughts are fre- 
quently beautiful, and the style is easy and harmonious. A passage 
in this treatise has been pointed out as the probable origin of one 
of the most exquisite images in the poetry of Gray — 
" Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, 
With orient hues unborrow'd of the sun." 

" There must be a sprightly imagination or fancy ranging over 
infinite ground, piercing into every corner, and by the light of that 
true poetical fire, discovering a thousand little bodies or images in 
the mind, and similitudes among them, unseen to common eyes, 
and which could not be discovered without the rays of that sun." 

Evelyn mentions Temple's residence at Sheen with great praise 
in his Diary: — "27th Aug. (1678). I took leave of the duke and 
dined at Mr. Hen. Brouncker's, at the Abbey of Sheen, formerly 
a monastery of Carthusians, there yet remaining some of their 
solitary cells, with a cross. Within this ample inclosure are 
several pretty villas and fine gardens of the most excellent fruits, 
especially Sir Wm. Temple's (lately ambassador into Holland), 
and the Lord Lisle's, son to the Earl of Leicester, who has divers 
rare pictures ; above all, that of Sir Brien Tuke's, by Holbein." 
And again, March 29, 1687. " After dinner we went to see Sir 
Wm. Temple's near to it, where the most remarkable things are 
his orangery and gardens, where the wall-fruit trees are most ex- 
quisitely nailed and trained, far better than I ever noted." 



My Lord, Brussels, Aug. 1657. 

I received lately the honour of one from your Lord- 
ship, which, after all complaints of slowness and dulness, had 



LORD LISLE. 97 

enough to bear it out, though it had been much better ad- 
dressed, but needed nothing where it was, besides being yours. 
In my present station I want no letters of business or news, 
which makes those that bring me marks of my friends' remem- 
brance, or touches at their present thoughts and entertain- 
ments, taste much better than anything can do that is common 
fare. 

I agree very much with your Lordship, in being very 
little satisfied with the wit's excuse of employing none 
upon relations, as they do in France; and doubt much it is 
the same temper and course of thoughts amongst us, that 
makes us neither act things worth relating, nor relate things 
worth the reading. Whilst making some of the company 
laugh, and others ridiculous, is the game in vogue, I fear 
Ave shall hardly succeed at any other; and am sorry our 
courtiers should content themselves with such victories as 
these. I would have been glad to have seen Mr. Cowley, 
before he died, celebrate Captain Douglas's death, who stood 
and burnt in one of our ships at Chatham, when his soldiers 
left him, because it should never be said, a Douglas quitted 
his post without orders : whether it be wise in men to do 
such actions or not, I am sure it is so in states to honour 
them ; and, if they can, to turn the vein of wits to raise up 
the esteem of some qualities above the real value, rather than 
bring everything to burlesque, which, if it be allowed at all, 
should only be so to wise men in their closets, and not to 
wits in their common work and company. But I leave them 
to be formed by great men's examples and humours ; and 
know very well it is folly for a private man to touch them, 
which does but bring them like wasps about one's ears. 
However, I cannot but bewail the transitiveness of their 
fame, as well as other men's, when I hear Mr. Waller is 
tnrned to burlesque amongst them while he is alive, which 
never happened to old poets till many years after their death; 
and though I never knew him enough to adore him, as many 



yo SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE TO LORD LISLE. 

have done, and easily believe he may be, as your Lordship 
says, enough out of fashion; yet I am apt to think some of 
the cold cut- work bands were of as fine thread, and as well 
wrought as any of our new points; and, at least, that all the 
wit he and his company spent in heightening love and friend- 
ship, was better employed than what is laid out prodigally by 
the modern wits, in mockery of all sorts of religion and govern- 
ment. I know not how your Lordship's letter has engaged 
me in this kind of discourse; but I know very well you will 
advise me after it to keep my residence here as long as I can, 
foretelling me what success I am likely to have among our 
courtiers, if I come over. The best of it is, my heart is set 
so much upon my little corner at Sheen, that, while I can 
keep that, no other disappointment will be very sensible to 
me ; and because my wife tells me she is so bold as to enter 
into talk of enlarging our dominions there. I am contriving 
here this summer how a succession of cherries may be com- 
passed from May till Michaelmas, and how the riches of 
Sheen vines may be improved by half a dozen sorts which are 
not yet known there, and which I think much beyond any 
that are. I should be very glad to come and plant them myself 
this next season, but know not yet how these thoughts will 
hit. Though I design to stay but a month in England, yet 
they are here very unwilling that I should stir, as all people 
in adversity are jealous of being forsaken; and his Majesty 
is not willing to give them any discouragement, whether he 
gives them any assistance or not. But if they end the cam- 
paign with any good fortune, they will be better-humoured 
in that, as well as in all other points : and it seems not a very 
unlikely thing, the French having done nothing in six months 
past, but harass their army, and being before Lisle, engaged 
in a siege which may very well break the course of their 
success. They have not yet made the least advance upon any 
of the outworks, but been beaten off with much loss in all 
their assaults ; and if the king's design be to bring his nobility 



LADY RUSSELL TO THE BISHOP OF SALISBURY. 99 

as low as lie has done his people, he is in a good way, and 
may very well leave most of the brass among them in their 
trenches there. 

¥m. Temple. 



LETTER XIX. 



Lady Russell to the Bishop of Salisbury. — Loss of 
her Sister. 

" It is very surprising," observes Horace Walpole, " how much 
better women write than men. I have now before me a volume 
of letters by the widow of the beheaded Lord Russell, which are 
full of the most moving and impressive eloquence." Bishop Burnet 
declared in one of his letters to Lady Russell, " You have so strange 
a way of expressing yourself, that I sincerely acknowledge my 
pen is apt to drop from my hand when I begin writing to you, for 
I am very sensible I cannot rise up to your strain." Some inter- 
esting letters from Lady Russell to her husband, written during 
their occasional separations, in the fourteen happy years of their 
union, were published in 1819. Of her feelings upon that event, 
which over-clouded her earthly enjoyments, nothing has been 
recorded; but we know, that when the melancholy result of 
the trial was proclaimed, she neither disturbed the court, nor 
distracted the attention of her husband. Lady Russell survived 
her lord many years, dying at the advanced age of 86 years ; and 
that sorrow, which time could not dispel, a sincere and a Christian 
faith softened and reduced. No mourner ever walked through 
life with a more affecting resignation, or a more unostentatious 
dignity of demeanour. 



16th October, 1690. 
I have, my Lord, so upright a heart to my friends, that 
though your great weight of business had forced you to a 
silence of this kind, yet I should have no doubt but that one 
I so distinguish in that little number God has left me, does 
join with me to lament my late losses; the one was a just 
sincere man, and the only son of a sister, and a friend I loved 



100 LADY RUSSELL TO 

with too much passion; the other my last sister, and I ever loved 
her tenderly. It pleases me to think that she deserves to be 
remembered by all those who knew her. But after above 
forty years' acquaintance with so amiable a creature, one 
must needs, in reflecting, bring to remembrance so many 
engaging endearments as are yet at present embittering and 
painful; and, indeed, we may be sure, that when anything 
below God is the object of our love, at one time or another 
it will be a matter of our sorrow. But a little time will put 
me again into my settled state of mourning ; for a mourner I 
must be all my days upon earth, and there is no need I should 
be other. My glass runs low. The world does not want me, 
nor I want that; my business is at home, and within a 
narrow compass. I must not deny, as there was something 
so glorious in the object of my biggest sorrow, I believe that, 
in some measure, kept me from being then overwhelmed. 
So, now it affords me, together with the remembrance how 
many years we lived together, thoughts that are joy enough 
for one who looks no higher than a quiet submission to her 
lot; and such pleasures in educating my young folks, that 
surmount the cares that it will afford. If I shall be spared 
the trial, where I have most thought of being prepared to 
bear the pain, I hope I shall be thankful, and I think I ask 
it faithfully, that it may be in mercy, not in judgment. Let 
me rather be tortured here, than they or I be rejected in that 
other blessed peaceful home to all ages to which my soul 
aspires. There is something in the younger going before me, 
that I have observed all my life, to give a sense I cannot 
describe; it is harder to be borne than a bigger loss, where 
there has been spun out a longer thread of life. Yet I see no 
cause for it, for every day we see the young fall with the 
old: but methinks it is a violence upon nature. A troubled 
mind has a multitude of these thoughts; yet I hope I master 
all murmurings ; if I have had any, I am sorry, and will have 
no more, assisted by God's grace; and rest satisfied that 



THE BISHOP OF SALISBURY. 101 

whatever I think, I shall one day be entirely satisfied what 
God has done, and shall do, will be best, and justify both his 
justice and mercy. I meant this as a very short epistle ; but 
you have been some years acquainted with my infirmity, and 
have endured it, though you never had waste time, I believe, 
in your life ; and better times do not, I hope, make your 
patience less. However, it will become me to put an end 
to this, which I will do, signing myself cordially your, &c. 



LETTER XX. 



Sir Matthew Hale to his Children. — Directions for the 
Employment of their Time, 

The Memoir of Bumet has introduced us into the family of 
Hale ; and a few notes communicated by Baxter, who knew him 
in advanced life, have also illustrated the simplicity and elevation 
of his mind. Burnet says, that he divided himself between the 
duties of religion and the studies of his profession. " He took a 
strict account of his time, of which the reader will best judge by 
the scheme he drew for a day. It is set down in the same simpli- 
city in which he writ it for his own private use : — Morning, — to 
lift up my heart to God in thankfulness for renewing thy life. — • 
Evening : — cast up the accounts of the day. If aught amiss, beg 
pardon. Gather resolution of more vigilance. If well, bless the 
mercy and grace of God that hath supported thee." The same 
humility marked his actions. Baxter, who was himself notorious 
for negligence of costume, has noticed the homeliness of his dress, 
and the humbleness of his residence at Acton. Four letters from 
Sir Matthew Hale to his children have been published in his moral 
and religious works : they were written during the brief intervals 
of leisure afforded to him upon the circuit, and display the natural 
vigour and practical wisdom by which he was distinguished. 



Dear Children, 

I intended to have been at Alderley this Whitsuntide, 
desirous to renew those counsels and advices which I have 






102 SIR MATTHEW HALE 

often given yon, in order to yonr greatest concernment; 
namely, the everlasting good and welfare of your souls here- 
after, and the due ordering of your lives and conversations 
here. 

And although young people are apt, through their own 
indiscretion, or the ill advice of others, to think these kinds of 
entertainments but dry and empty matters, and the morose 
and needless interpositions of old men; yet give me leave to 
tell you, that these things are of more importance and concern- 
ment to you, than external gifts and bounties, (wherein) never- 
theless I have not been wanting to you, according to my ability. 

This was my intention in this journey; and though I have 
been disappointed therein, yet I thought good, by letters and 
messages, to do something that might be done that way for 
your benefit, that I had otherwise intended to have done in 
person. 

Assure yourselves, therefore, and believe it from one that 
knows what he says, — from one that can neither have any 
reason or end to deceive you, — that the best gift I can give 
you is, good counsel ; and the best counsel I can give you, is 
that which relates to your greatest import and concernment, 
religion. 

And therefore since I cannot at this time deliver it to you 
in person, I shall do so by this letter, wherein I shall not be 
very large, but keep myself within the bounds proper for a 
letter, and to those things only, at this time, which may be 
most of present use and moment to you; and by your due 
observance of these directions, I shall have a good character, 
both of your dutifulness to God, your obedience to your 
father, and also of your discretion and prudence; for it is most 
certain, that as religion is the best means to advance and certify 
human nature, so no man shall be either truly wise or truly 
happy without it, and the love of it; no, not in this life, 
much less in that which is to come. 

First. Therefore, every morning and every evening, upon 



TO HIS CHILDREN. 103 

your knees, humbly commend yourselves to the Almighty 
God in prayer, begging his mercy to pardon your sins, his 
grace to direct you, his providence to protect you; returning 
him humble thanks for all his dispensations towards you, yea, 
even for his very corrections and afflictions; entreating him to 
give you wisdom and grace, to make a sober, patient, humble, 
profitable use of them, and in his due time to deliver you from 
them; concluding your prayers with the Lord's Prayer. This 
will be a certain means to bring your mind into a right frame, 
to procure you comfort and blessing, and to prevent thousands 
of inconveniences and mischiefs, to which you will be other- 
wise subjected. 

Secondly. Every morning, read seriously and reverently 
a portion of the Holy Scripture, and acquaint yourself with 
the history and doctrine thereof: it is a book full of light and 
wisdom, will make you wise to eternal life, and furnish you 
with direction, and principles, to guide and order your life 
safely and prudently. 

Thirdly. Conclude every evening with reading some part 
of the Scripture, and prayer in your family. 

Fourthly. Be strict and religious observers of the Lord's 
Day. Resort to your parish-church twice that day, if your 
health will permit, and attend diligently and reverently to 
the public prayers and sermons. He cannot reasonably expect 
a blessing from God the rest of the week, that neglects his 
duty to God, in the due consecration of this day to the special 
service and duty to God, which this day requires. 

Fifthly. Receive the sacrament at least three times in the 
year, and oftener as there is occasion, in your parish-church. 
The laws of the land require this, and the law of your Saviour 
requires it, and the law of duty and gratitude requires it of 
you. Prepare yourselves seriously for this service before- 
hand, and perform it with reverence and thankfulness. The 
neglect of this duty procures great inconveniences and strange- 



104 SIR MATTHEW HALE 

ness: and commonly the neglect hereof ariseth from some con- 
ceited opinion, that people inconsiderately take up ; but most 
ordinarily from a sluggishness of mind, and an unwillingness 
to fit and prepare the mind for it, or to leave some sinful or 
vain course that men are not willing to leave, and yet con- 
demn themselves in the practice of, 

Sixthly. Beware of those that go about to seduce you 
from that religion, wherein you have been brought up hitherto, 
namely, the true Protestant religion. It is not unknown to 
any, that observes the state of things in the world, how many 
erroneous religions are scattered abroad in the world; and 
how industrious men of false persuasions are to make prose- 
lytes. There are Antinomians, Quakers, Anabaptists, and 
divers others : nay, although the laws of this kingdom, and 
especially the statute of 23 Eliz. cap. 1, have inflicted the 
severest penalty upon those that go about to withdraw per- 
sons to the Romish religion, from the religion established in 
England, as any man that reads that statute may find; yet 
there are scattered up and down the world divers factors and 
agents, that, under several disguises and pretences, endeavour 
the perverting of weak and easy persons. Take heed of all 
such persuaders. And that you may know and observe the 
better, you shall ever find these artifices practised by them. 
They will use all flattering applications and insinuations to be 
master of your humour; and when they have gotten that 
advantage, — they seemed before to serve you, — will then com- 
mand you. 

They will use all possible skill to raise in you jealousy 
and dislike towards those who may otherwise continue and 
keep you in the truth : as, to raise dislike in you against 
your minister; nay, rather than fail, to raise dissension 
among relations; yea, to cast jealousies and surmises among 
them, if it may be instrumental to corrupt them. They will 
endeavour to withdraw the people from the public ministry 



TO HIS CHILDREN. 105 

of God's word; encourage men to slight and neglect it; and 
when they have once effected this, they have a fair opportu- 
nity to infuse their own corrupt principles. 

They will engage you, by some means or other, to them ; 
either by some real, but, most ordinarily, by some pretended 
kindness or familiarity, that, in a little time, you shall not 
dare to displease them : you must do and speak what they 
will have you, because, some way or other, you are entangled 
with them, or engaged to them; and then they become your 
governors, and you will not dare to contradict or disobey 
them. 

These are some of those artifices, whereby crafty and 
subtle seducers gain proselytes, and bring men under captivity. 

Seventhly. Be very careful to moderate your passions, 
especially of choler and anger: it inflames the blood, disorders 
the brain, and, for the time, exterminates not only religion, 
but common reason: it puts the mind into confusion, and 
throws wild-fire into the tongue, whereby men give others 
great advantage against them : it renders a man incapable of 
doing his duty to God, and puts a man upon acts of violence, 
unrighteousness, and injustice to men: therefore keep your 
passions under discipline, and under as strict a chain as you 
would keep a curst unruly mastiff. Look to it, that you give 
it not too much line at first; but if it hath gotten any fire 
within you, quench it presently with consideration, and let it 
not break out into passionate or unruly actions : but, whatever 
you do, let it not gangrene into malice, envy, or spite. 

Eighthly. Send your children early to learn their cate- 
chism, that they may take in the true principles of religion 
betimes, which may grow up with them, and habituate them 
both to the knowledge and practice of it; that they may 
escape the danger of corruption by error or vice, being ante- 
cedently seasoned with better principles. 

Ninthly. Receive the blessings of God with very much 



106 SIR MATTHEW HALE 

thankfulness to him; for He is the root and fountain of all 
the good you do, or can receive. 

Tenthly. Bear all afflictions and crosses patiently: it is 
your duty; for afflictions come not from the dust. The great 
God of heaven and earth is he, that sends these messages to 
you; though, possibly, evil occurrences may be the immediate 
instruments of them. You owe to Almighty God an infinite 
subjection and obedience, and to expostulate with him is 
rebellion; and as it is your duty, so it is your wisdom and 
your prudence; impatience will not discharge your yoke; but 
it will make it gall the worse, and sit the harder. 

Eleventhly. Learn not only patience under your afflic- 
tions, but also profitably to improve them to your soul's good. 
Learn by them how vain and unprofitable things the world, 
and all the pleasures thereof are, that a sharp or a lingering 
sickness renders utterly tasteless. Learn how vain and weak 
a thing human nature is, which is pulled down to the gates 
of death, and clothed with rottenness and corruption, by a 
little disorder in the blood, in a nerve, in a vein, in an artery. 
And since we have so little hold of a temporal life, which is 
shaken and shattered by any small occurrence, accident, or 
distemper, learn to lay hold of eternal life, and of that cove- 
nant of peace and salvation, which Christ hath bought for all 
that believe and obey the Gospel of peace and salvation: 
there shall be no death, no sickness, no pain, no weakness, 
but a state of unchangeable and everlasting happiness. And 
if you thus improve affliction, you are gainers by it; and 
most certain it is, that there is no more probable way, under 
heaven, to be delivered from affliction, (if the wise God see it 
fit,) than thus to improve it: for affliction is a messenger, and 
the rod hath a voice; and that is, to require mankind to be the 
more patient, and the more humble, and the more to acknow- 
ledge Almighty God in all our ways. And if men listen to 
this voice of the rod, and conform to it, the rod hath done his 



TO HIS CHILDREN. 107 

errand; and either will leave a man, or at least give a man, 
singular comfort, even under the sharpest affliction. And 
this affliction, which is but for a moment, thus improved, will 
work for us an exceeding and eternal weight of glory. 

Twelfthly. Reverence your minister: he is a wise and a 
good man, and one that loves you, and hath a tender care and 
respect for you. Do not grieve him, either by neglect or dis- - 
respect. Assure yourselves, if there be any person that sets 
any of you against him, or provokes, or encourageth any of 
you to despise or neglect him, that person, whoever he be,, 
loves not you, nor the office he bears. And, therefore, as the 
laws of the land, and the Divine Providence, have placed him 
at Alderley, to have the care of your souls; so I must tell you, 
I do expect you should reverence and honour him, for his 
own, for your, and for his office's sake. 

And now I have written this long epistle to you, to per- 
form that office for me that I should have done in person, if I 
could have taken this journey. The epistle is long; but it 
had been longer, if I had had more time. And though, per- 
chance, some there may be in the world, that when they hear 
of it will interpret it to be but the excursions and morose 
rules of old age, unnecessary, and such as might have been 
spared; yet I am persuaded it will find better acceptation 
thereof from you that are my children. I am now on the 
shady side of threescore years: I write to you what you 
have often heard me in substance speak. And possibly when 
I shall leave this world, you will want such a remembrancer 
as I have been to you. 

The words that I now, and at former times have written 
to you, are words of truth and soberness; and words and 
advices that proceed from a heart full of love and affection to 
you all. If I should see you do amiss in anything, and 
should not reprove you, or if I should find you want counsel 
and direction, and should not give it, I should not perform 
the trust of a father; and if you should not thankfully receive 

E 2 



108 SIB MATTHEW HALE TO HIS CHILDREN. 

it, you would be" somewhat defective in the duty you owe to 
God and me, as children. As I have never spared my purse 
to supply you, according to my abilities, and the reasonable- 
ness of occasions, so I have never been wanting to you in good 
and prudent counsels ; and the God of heaven give you wis- 
dom, constancy, and fidelity, in the observance of them. 
May 20. I am your ever loving father, 

Matthew Hale. 



LETTER XXI. 



Algernon Sidney to Mr. B. Furley. — His 
Self-devotion. 

It was remarked by Coleridge, that the style of Sidney never 
reminds one of books. It flows from the heart, and awakens in 
the reader's bosom, in some measure at least, the ardent feelings 
of the writer. Personal pride seems to have been intimately 
blended in his disposition with religious enthusiasm. Sir Wil- 
liam Temple told Lord Dartmouth that Sidney considered him- 
self specially qualified by heaven to govern the rest of mankind. 
Of the purity of his patriotism, different opinions will always be 
entertained. His conduct has found eloquent defenders ; and his 
admirers will recollect the passage in Lord Erskine's Speech on 
Constructive Treason, in which he alluded, with such violence of 
invective, to those who took from the file the sentence against 
Sidney, which should have been left, he said, on record, to all 
ages, that it might arise and darken in the sight, like the hand- 
writing on the wall before the Eastern tyrant, to deter from out- 
rages upon the subject. 

Mr. Benjamin Furley was an English merchant, residing at 
Rotterdam, and connected with the liberal party of that day. Mr. 
Blencowe supposes this letter to have been written previously to 
Sidney's return to England, in 1677, and certainly later than 1664. 



ALGERNON SIDNEY TO MR. B. PURLEY. 109 

Sir, 

I have received thy letter, and rejoice in its contents; 
I hope it is from the Lord. The work in hand is great and 
good : I am a weak instrument employed in it with others. 
If I consider myself, I see little ground of hope that I ever 
shall advance much in it : but he that can make dry bones to 
live, can, when he pleaseth, fill a dark and weak creature 
with light, spirit, and power. Not long after the beginning 
of the great changes, I did examine my own heart, and tried 
whether I would comply with those in power to exempt 
myself from the pressures under which I lay, and the persecu- 
tions which I thought would follow upon my refusal : I soon 
found that I could not do it. This persuaded me to absent 
myself, hoping that my enemies would neglect me, when I 
was far out of their sight, or that I could more easily find a 
defence against them in a foreign country, than in my own. 
By this means, I lived almost three years seldom much 
disturbed; but in the end I found that it was an ill-grounded 
peace that I enjoyed, and could have no rest in my own 
spirit, because I lived only to myself, and was in no ways 
useful unto God's people, my country, and the world. This 
consideration, joined with those dispensations of Providence 
which I observed, and judged favourable unto the designs of 
good people, brought me out of my retirement into these 
parts. The spirits of those who understood reasons far better 
than I, seemed as yet not to be fully prepared: this obliged 
me again to withdraw myself. I found far less satisfaction 
in my second retirement than the first, and, by the advice of 
friends, am once more come upon the stage. I do not know 
what success God will give unto our undertakings, but I am 
certain I can here have no peace in my own spirit, if I do not 
endeavour, by all means possible, to advance the interest of 
God's people. Others may judge from whence this temper 
doth proceed, better than I can ; if it be from God, he will 



11.0 ALGERNON SIDNEY TO MR. B. FURLEY. 

make it prosper; if from the heat and violence of my own 
disposition, I and my designs shall perish. I desire you and 
all our friends to seek God for me, praying him to defend me 
from outward enemies, but more especially from those that 
are within me; and that he would give me such a steady 
knowledge of truth, as I may be constantly directed in seek- 
ing that which is truly good. This being obtained, all other 
things will follow; I shall know what, when, and how I am 
to act; and shall be prepared either to act, or suffer, according 
to the will of my Maker. I am, 

Your friend. 



LETTER XXII. 

Richard Baxter to the Rev. Richard Allestree. — 

Some passages in his own history. 

Watts said, that he would sooner have written the Call to the 
Unconverted, than Paradise Lost; few religious appeals have 
obtained such immediate and extensive celebrity. The heartiness 
and sincerity of Baxter's manner more than compensate for the 
acrimonious pungent style, which his friend Sylvester, (to whom 
he intrusted the publication of his autobiography,) supposed him 
to have contracted " by his plain dealing with desperate sinners." 
The following letter refers to a transaction detailed at greater 
length in his own interesting Memoirs. It appears to have origi- 
nated out of a report, injurious to the character of Baxter, which 
he supposed to have been promulgated by Allestree, from whom 
Sylvester has printed a note, dated December 13, 1679, in the 
Preface to the Life of Baxter. Of Allestree, who had been his 
schoolfellow at Mr. John Owen's, Baxter relates an anecdote : — 
" When my master set him up into the lower end of the highest 
form, where I had long been chief, I took it so ill, that I began to 
talk of leaving the school ; whereupon my master, gravely, but 
very tenderly rebuked my pride, and gave me for my theme,— 
Ne sutor ultra crepidam." (Life, part 1, p. 3.) 

The following passage from his Memoirs, will illustrate some of 



RICHARD BAXTER TO THE REV. RICHARD ALLESTREE. Ill 

the circumstances mentioned in the letter. (S As soon as I came 
to the army, Oliver Cromwell coldly bid me welcome, and never 
spake one word to me more while I was there : nor once all that 
time vouchsafed me an opportunity to come to head-quarters, 
where the councils and meetings of the officers were, so that most 
of my design was thereby frustrated ; and his secretary gave out 
that there was a reformer come to the army to undeceive them, 
and to save Church and State, with some other jeers ; by which I 
perceived that all that I had said but the night before to the com- 
mittee, was come to Cromwell before me. (I believe by Col. 
Purefoy's means.) But Col. Whalley welcomed me, and was the 
worse thought on for it by the rest of the cabal." 



Sir, Dec. 20, 1679. 

As your ingenuity giveth me full satisfaction, I am 
very desirous to give you such just satisfaction concerning 
myself, that you may think neither better nor worse of me 
than I am ; we old men are prone to have kinder thoughts 
of our childish old acquaintance than of later, and to value 
most their esteem, whom we most esteem ; and the current 
report of your honesty, as well as knowledge, commandeth a 
great estimation of you from us all. I was, before the war, 
offended much at the multitude of ignorant, drunken readers, 
who had the care of souls, and the great number of worthy 
ministers who were cast out and ruined, and of serious Chris- 
tians that were persecuted for praying together, and for little 
things. I was one of those that were glad that the Parlia- 
ment, 1640, attempted a reformation of these things, which I 
expressed, perhaps, too openly. I lived in a town, (Kidder- 
minster,) then famous for wickedness and drunkenness. 
They twice rose against me, and sought to kill me. Once 
for saying the infants had original sin, &c. ; and, next time, 
for persuading the churchwardens to execute the Parliament's 
order, (the king's being yet with them,) for defacing the 
images of the Trinity on the cross ; when they knocked down 
two strangers for my sake, who carried it to their graves. 



]12 RICHARD BAXTER 

Then the old curate indicted me at the assizes, I never heard 
for what, but I was forced to begone. If any did but sing 
a psalm, or repeat a sermon in their houses, the rabble cried, 
"Down with the Round-heads !" and were ready to destroy 
them ; so that the religious part of the town were forced to 
fly after me to Coventry, where we lived quietly; but having 
nothing of their own, they were constrained to become gar- 
rison soldiers, and I took my bare diet, to preach once a- week, 
refusing the offered place of chaplain to the garrison. The 
news of 200,000 murdered by the Irish and Papist strength in 
the king's armies, and the great danger of the kingdom, was 
published by the Parliament ; my judgment then was, that 
neither King nor Parliament might lawfully fight against each 
other ; that dividing was dissolving and destroying ; and only 
necessary defence of the constitution was lawful ; but that 
the bonum publicum was the essential end of government ; and 
though I thought both sides faulty, I thought that both the 
defensive part and salus populi lay on the Parliament's side, 
and I very openly published and preached accordingly, the 
Parliament still professing, that they took not arms against 
the king, but against subjects that not only fled from justice, 
but sought by arms to destroy the Parliament, &c. In a 
word, my principles were the same with Bishop Bilson's, (of 
subjection,) and Jewell's, but never so popular as R. Hooker's. 
"When I had stayed in Coventry a year, my father in Shrop- 
shire was plundered by the king's soldiers, (who never was 
against the king or conformity.) I went into Shropshire, 
and he was for my sake taken prisoner to Tinshull. I stayed 
at Longford garrison for two months, and got him exchanged 
for Mr. R. Fowler. In that time, the garrison being little 
more than a mile distance, the soldiers on each side used fre- 
quently to have small attempts against each other, in which 
Judge Fienne's eldest son was killed of our side, and one 
soldier of their side, and no more that I know of. I was 
present when the soldier was killed, the rest ran away and 



TO THE REV. RICHARD ALLESTREE. 113 

left him ; and other soldiers hurt him not, but offered him 
quarter ; but he would not take it, nor lay down his arms : 
and I was one that bid him lay them down, and threatened to 
shoot him, but hurt him not, he striking at me with his 
musket, and narrowly missing me. I rode from him ; and 
Captain Holydaye, the governor, being behind me, shot him 
dead; and it grieved me the more, because we afterwards 
heard that he was a Welshman, and knew not what we said to 
him. I never saw man killed but this ; nor this, indeed, for 
I rode away from him. Above twenty prisoners we there 
took, and all, save two or three, got away through a sink- 
hole, and the rest were exchanged. I returned to Coventry, 
and followed my studies another year; all that garrison 
abhorred sectarian and popular rebellious principles. The 
Parliament then put out the Earl of Essex, and new modelled 
their armies ; and gave Fairfax a new commission, leaving 
out the king ; when before, all the commissions were to fight 
for king and Parliament. Naseby fight suddenly followed ; 
being near, I went, some days after, to see the field and army ; 
when I came to them, (before Leicester,) divers orthodox 
captains told me that we were all like to be undone, and all 
along of the ministers, who had all, (save Mr. Bowles,) for- 
saken the army ; and the sectaries had thereby turned their 
preachers, and possessed them with destructive principles 
against king, parliament, and church. And now they said, 
God's providence had put the trust of the " people's safety in 
our hands, and they would, when the conquest was finished, 
change the government of church and state, and become our 
lords." This struck me to the heart ; I went among them, 
and found it true. Hereupon they persuaded me yet to come 
among them, and got Whalley, (then sober, and against those 
men,) to invite me to his regiment (the most sectarian and 
powerful in the army.) I went home to Coventry, and slept 
not till I had called together about twelve or more reverend 
ministers, who then lived there (divers are yet living), and 

E 3 



114 RICHARD BAXTER 

told them our sad case ; and that I had an invitation, and 
was willing to venture my life in a trial to change the soldiers' 
minds. They all consented. I promised presently to go. 
I asked leave of the committee and government, who con- 
sented. Before midnight, the garrison reviled the committee 
for consenting. They sent for me again, and told me I must 
not go, for the garrison would mutiny. I told them I had 
promised, and would go. But I foolishly, to satisfy them, 
told my reasons, which set Lieutenant-Col. Purefoy in a rage 
against me, for so accusing the army. The next morning I 
went, and met with the consequent of my error; for Cromwell 
had notice of what I had said, and came about before I could 
get thither: and I was met with scorn, (as one that meant to 
save church and state from the army.) There I staid a while, 
and found that being but in one place I could do little good. 
I got Mr. Cooke to come and help me, (who since helped Mr. 
G. Booth into Chester for the king, and was imprisoned for 
it, though now he is silenced.) He and I spent our time in 
speaking and disputing against the destroyers ; and I so far 
prevailed as to render the seducers in the regiment contemned, 
except in one troop, or a few more. I told the orthodox parlia- 
ment men of their danger. But Cromwell frustrated my 
cherished hope,, and would never suffer me to come near the 
general, nor the head-quarters, nor himself, nor never once to 
speak to him. When the war seemed over, I was invited 
home again ; but I called near twenty ministers together at 
Coventry, and told them that the crisis was not now far off; 
the army would shortly show themselves in rebellion against 
king, the parliament, and church ; and I was unwilling to 
venture my life to try to draw off as many against them as I 
could. They voted me to stay. I went back, and it pleased 
God that the very first day they met at Nottingham in 
council, to confederate, as I foresaw, I was not only kept 
away, but finally separated from them, by bleeding almost to 
death, (120 ounces at the nose.) Had not that prevented it, 



TO THE REV. RICHARD ALLESTREE. 115 

I had hazarded my life at Triploe-heath, where they broke 
out, but had done little good; for when the sober part then 
declared against them, they drew off about 5000 or 6000 
men ; and Cromwell filled up their places with sectaries, and 
was much stronger than before. All that I could do after, 
was to preach and write against them. This is a true account 
of the case of your old friend, 

R. Baxter. 



LETTER XXIII. 



Sir Richard Steele to his Wife. — Her beauty and 
affection eulogised. 

Coleridge, who sometimes compared his own early history 
with that of Steele, preferred him, we are told, to Addison and the 
Essayists of those days, and commended in particular the letters to 
his wife. While Steele never approached his friend in the beaut}' 
of his criticism, he excelled him in the variety of his characters. 
The Bickerstaff of the Tatler was his own, and the first sketch of 
the famous Sir Roger de Coverley came from the same pencil. Any 
effort to attain the musical sweetness of Addison, he openly dis- 
claimed, and he told Congreve that he intentionally adopted " the 
air of common speech." To be intelligible was his only aim. The 
animation of his fancy, however, often carried him up to eloquence ; 
and Beattie considered the story of The Dream, in the 117th 
Tatler, one of the finest moral tales he had ever read. His criti- 
cism possessed the perspicuity without the grace of Addison ; but 
it was, for the most part, just in conception, and beneficial in its 
application. When the extravagance of Lee, and the gorgeous 
declamation of Dry den usurped the stage, he laboured to lead 
back the popular taste to the purer fountains of Shakspeare — and 
of truth. His good-nature was equal to his imprudence. Young 
called him the best-natured creature in the world. " Even in the 
worst state of health he seemed to desire nothing but to please 
and be pleased." This beautiful letter was prefixed to the third 
volume of the Ladies' Library, published in 1714. Steele alludes 
to his wife's death with much tenderness, in No. XII. of the 
Theatre. 



116 SIR RICHARD STEELE 

Madam, 

If great obligations received, are just motives for 
addresses of this kind, you have an unquestionable preten- 
sion to my acknowledgments, who have condescended to give 
me your very self. I can make no return for so inestimable 
a favour, but in acknowledging the generosity of the giver. 
To have either wealth, wit, or beauty, is generally a tempta- 
tion to a woman to put an unreasonable value upon herself; 
but with all these in a degree which drew upon you the 
addresses of men of the amplest fortunes, you bestowed your 
person where you could have no expectations but from the 
gratitude of the receiver, though you knew he could exert 
that gratitude in no other returns but esteem and love. For 
which must I first thank you ? for what you have denied 
yourself, or for what you have bestowed on me ? 

I owe to you, that for my sake you have overlooked the 
prospect of living in pomp and plenty ; and I have not been 
circumspect enough to preserve you from care and sorrow. I 
will not dwell upon this particular; you are so good a wife, 
that I know you think I rob you of more than I can give, 
when I say anything in your favour to my own disadvantage. 
Whoever should see or hear you, would think it were worth 
leaving all the world for you; while I, habitually possessed 
of that happiness, have been throwing away important endea- 
vours for the rest of mankind, to the neglect of her for whom 
any other man, in his senses, would be apt to sacrifice every- 
thing else. 

I know not by what unreasonable prepossession it is, but 
methinks there must be something austere to give authority 
to wisdom : and I cannot account for having only rallied many 
seasonable sentiments of yours, but that you are too beautiful 
to appear judicious. 

One may grow fond, but not wise from what is said by so 
lovely a counsellor. Hard fate, that you have been lessened 
by your perfections, and lost power by your charms ! 



TO HIS WIFE. 117 

That ingenuous spirit in all your behaviour, that familiar 
grace in your words and actions, has for these seven year9 
only inspired admiration and love; but experience has taught 
me, the best counsel I ever have received has been pro- 
nounced by the fairest and softest lips, and convinced me that 
I am in you blest with a wise friend, as well as a charming 
mistress. 

Your mind shall no longer suffer by your person; nor 
shall your eyes, for the future, dazzle me into a blindness 
towards your understanding. I rejoice in this public occasion 
to show my esteem for you, and must do you the justice to 
say, that there can be no virtue represented in all this collec- 
tion for the female world, which I have not known you 
exert, as far as the opportunities of your fortune have given 
you leave. Forgive me, that my heart overflows with love 
and gratitude for daily instances of your prudent economy, 
the just disposition you make of your little affairs, your 
cheerfulness in despatch of them, your prudent forbearance of 
any reflections, that they might have needed less vigilance had 
you disposed of your fortune suitably; in short, for all the 
arguments you every day give me of a generous and sincere 
affection. 

It is impossible for me to look back on many evils and 
pains which I have suffered since we came together, without 
a pleasure which is not to be expressed, from the proofs I 
have had in those circumstances of your unwearied goodness. 
How often has your tenderness removed pain from my sick 
head ! how often anguish from my afflicted heart ! with how 
skilful patience have I known you comply with the vain 
projects which pain has suggested, to have an aching limb 
removed by journeying from one side of a room to another ! 
how often, the next instant, travelled the same ground again, 
without telling your patient it was to no purpose to change his 
situation ! If there are such beings as guardian angels, thus are 
they employed. I will no more believe one of them more good 






118 SIR RICHARD STEELE TO HIS WIFE. 

in its inclinations, than I can conceive it more charming in 
its form than my wife. 

But I offend, and forget that what I say to you is to 
appear in public. You are so great a lover of home, that 
I know it will be irksome to you to go into the world even 
in an applause. I will end this without so much as mention- 
ing your little flock, or your own amiable figure at the head 
of it. That I think them preferable to all other children, I 
know is the effect of passion and instinct ; that I believe you 
the best of wives, I know proceeds from experience and 
reason. I am, madam, your most obliged husband, and most 
obedient humble servant, 

Richard Steele. 



LETTER XXIV. 



Evelyn to Wotton. — Notices of the Life of the Hon. 
Robert Boyle. 

The character of Boyle presents the beautiful union of philo- 
sophy with religion ; of the profoundest research with the lowliest 
dependence upon the mercy and providence of God. His memory 
is alike dear to science and to virtue. Evelyn's eulogy of him — 
the tribute of a familiar intimacy of forty years — requires no illus- 
tration; but his allusion to the charity of Boyle is amply con- 
firmed by Bishop Burnet. " Even those," says he, " who knew 
all his other concerns, could never find out what he did in that 
way ; and, indeed, he was so strict to our Saviour's precept, that, 
except the persons themselves, or some one whom he trusted to 
convey it to them, nobody ever knew how that great share of his 
estate, which went away, invisibly, was distributed; even he 
himself kept no account of it, for that, he thought, might fall into 
other hands." Burnet spoke with authority on the subject, 
having been the frequent instrument of Boyle's benevolence, and 
having himself received his aid in the publication of the History 
of the Reformation. 



EVELYN TO WOTTON. 119 

Sir, 

I most heartily beg your pardon for detaining your 
books so unreasonably long after I had read them, which I 
did with great satisfaction, especially the Life of Descartes. 
The truth is, I had some hopes of seeing you here again, for 
methought (or at least I flattered myself with it), you said 
at parting you would do us that favour before my going to 
London, whither I am, God willing, setting out to-morrow 
or next day, for some time ; not without regret, unless I receive 
your commands, if I may be anyways serviceable to you, in 
order to that noble undertaking you lately mentioned to me:' 
I mean your generous offer and inclination to write the life 
of our late illustrious philosopher, Mr. Boyle, and to honour 
the memory of a gentleman of that singular worth and virtue. 
I am sure if you persist in that design, England shall never 
envy France, or need a Gassendus or a Baillet to perpetuate 
and transmit the memory of one not only equalling, but, in 
many things, transcending either of those excellent, and 
indeed, extraordinary persons, whom their pens have rendered 
immortal. I wish myself was furnished to afford you any 
considerable supplies (as you desired), after my so long 
acquaintance with Mr. Boyle, who had honoured me with his 
particular esteem, now very near forty years; as I might 
have done, by more duly cultivating the frequent opportuni- 
ties he was pleased to allow me. But so it is, that his life 
and virtues have been so conspicuous, as you'll need no other 
light to direct you, or subject-matter to work on, than what 
is so universally known, and by what he has done and pub- 
lished in his books. You may, perhaps, need some particu- 
lars as to his birth, family, education, and other less neces- 
sary circumstances for introduction ; and such other passages 
of his life as are not so distinctly known but by his own rela- 
tions. In this, if I can serve you, I shall do it with great 
readiness, and I hope success^ having some pretence by my wife, 



120 



EVELYN 



in whose grandfather s house (which is now mine, at Dept- 
ford) the father of this gentleman was so conversant, that 
contracting an affinity there, he left his (then) eldest son 
with him, whilst himself went into Ireland, who in his 
absence dying, lies in our parish church, under a remarkable 
monument. 

It is now, as I said, almost forty years since I first had the 
honour of being acquainted with Mr. Boyle; both of us 
newly returned from abroad, though, I know not how, never 
meeting there. Whether he travelled more in France than 
Italy, I cannot say ; but he had so universal an esteem in 
foreign parts, that not any stranger of note or quality, learned 
or curious, coming into England, but used to visit him with 
the greatest respect and satisfaction imaginable. Now, as he 
had an early inclination to learning, (so especially to that part 
of philosophy he so happily succeeded in,) he often ho- 
noured Oxford, and those gentlemen there, with his company, 
who more peculiarly applied themselves to the examination 
of the so long domineering methods and jargon of the schools. 
You have the names of this learned junto, most of them 
since deservedly dignified in that elegant History of the 
Royal Society, which must ever own its rise from that assem- 
bly; as does the preservation of that famous university from 
the fanatic rage and avarice of those melancholy times. 
These, with some others (whereof Mr. Boyle, the Lord Viscount 
Brouncker, Sir Robert Morray, were the most active), spirited 
with the same zeal, and under a more propitious influence, 
were the persons to whom the world stands obliged for the 
promoting of that generous and real knowledge, which gave 
the ferment that has ever since obtained, and surmounted all 
those many discouragements which it at first encountered. 
But by no man have the territories of the most useful know- 
ledge been more enlarged than by our hero, to whom there 
are many trophies due. And accordingly his fame was 
quickly spread, not only among us here in England, but 



TO WOTTON. 121 

through all the learned world besides. It must be confessed 
that he had a marvellous sagacity in finding out many useful 
and noble experiments. Never did stubborn matter come 
under his inquisition, but he extorted a confession of all that 
lay in her most intimate recesses, and what he discovered he 
as faithfully registered, and frankly communicated; in this 
exceeding my Lord Verulam, who (though never to be men- 
tioned without honour and admiration) was used to tell all 
that came to hand without much examination. His was 
probability; Mr. Boyle's, suspicion of success. Sir, you will 
here find ample field, and infinitely gratify the curious with 
a glorious and fresh survey of the progress he has made in 
these discoveries. Freed from those incumbrances which 
now and then render the way a little tedious, 'tis abundantly 
recompensing the pursuit; especially those noble achieve- 
ments of his, made in the spring and weight of the two most 
necessary elements of life, air and water, and their effects. 
The origin of forms, qualities, and principles of matter: 
histories of cold, light, colours, gems, effluvias and other 
his works so firmly established on experiments, polychrests, 
and of universal use to real philosophy ; besides other bene- 
ficial inventions peculiarly his; such as the dulcifying sea- 
water with that ease and plenty, together with many medici- 
nal remedies, cautions, directions, curiosities, and arcana, which 
owe their birth or illustration to his indefatigable recherches. 
He brought the phosphorus and anteluca to the clearest light 
that ever any did, after innumerable attempts. It were 
needless to insist on particulars to one who knows them 
better than myself. You will not, however, omit those 
many other treatises relating to religion, which, indeed, runs 
through all his writings upon occasion, and show how un- 
justly that aspersion has been cast on philosophy, that it 
disposes men to atheism. Neither did his severer studies yet 
sour his conversation in the least. He was the farthest from 
it in the world, and I question whether ever any man has 



122 EVELYN 

produced more experiments to establish his opinions without 
dogmatizing. He was a Corpuscularian without Epicurus; 
a great and happy analyzer, addicted to no particular sect, 
but, as became a generous and free philosopher, preferring 
truth above all; in a word, a person of that singular candour 
and worth, that to draw a just character of him, one must 
run through all the virtues, as well as through the sciences; 
and though he took the greatest care imaginable to conceal 
the most illustrious of them, his charities, and the many 
good works he so continually did, could not be hid. It is 
well known how large his bounty was upon all occasions ; 
witness the Irish, Indian, Lithuanian Bibles, upon the trans- 
lating, printing, publishing of which he laid out considerable 
sums ; the Catechism and Principles of the Christian Faith, 
which I think he caused to be put into Turkish, and dispersed 
amongst those infidels. And here you will take notice of 
the lecture he has endowed, and so seasonably provided for. 

As to his relations (as far as I have heard), his father, 
Richard Boyle, was faber forlunce, a person of wonderful 
sagacity in affairs, and no less probity, by which he com- 
passed a vast estate and great honours to his posterity, 
which was very numerous, and so prosperous, as has given to 
the public both divines and philosophers, soldiers, politicians, 
statesmen, and spread its branches among the most illus- 
trious and opulent of our nobility. Mr. Robert Boyle, born 
I think, in Ireland, was the youngest to whom yet he left 
a fair estate; to which was added, an honorary pay of a 
troop of horse, if I mistake not. And now, though amongst 
all his experiments, he never made that of the married life, 
yet I have been told he courted a beautiful and ingenious 
daughter of Carew, earl of Monmouth, to which is owing the 
birth of his Seraphic Love; and the first of his productions. 
Descartes was not so innocent. In the meantime he was the 
most facetious and agreeable conversation in the world among 
the ladies, whenever he happened to be engaged ; and yet so 



TO WOTTON. 123 

very serious, composed, and contemplative at all other times ; 
though far from moroseness, for, indeed, he was affable and 
civil rather to excess, yet without formality. 

As to his opinion in religious matters and discipline, I 
could not but discover in him the same free thoughts which 
he had of philosophy; not in notion only, but strictly as to 
practice, an excellent Christian, and the great duties of that 
profession, without noise, dispute, or determining; owning 
no master but the divine Author of it; no religion but 
primitive, no rule but Scripture, no law but right reason. 
For the rest, always conformable to the present settlement, 
without any sort of singularity. The mornings, after his 
private devotions, he usually spent in philosophical studies, 
and in his laboratory, sometimes extending them to night; 
but he told me he had quite given over reading by candle- 
light, as injurious to his eyes. This was supplied by his 
amanuensis, who sometimes read to him, and wrote out 
such passages as he noted, and that so often in loose papers, 
packed up without method, as made him sometimes to seek 
upon occasions, as himself confesses in divers of his works. 
Glasses, pots, chemical and mathematical instruments, books, 
and bundles of papers, did so fill and crowd his bedchamber, 
that there was just room for a few chairs: so as his whole 
equipage was very philosophical without formality. There 
were yet other rooms, and a small library, (and so, you 
know, had Descartes,) as learning more from men, real 
experiments, and in his laboratory (which was ample and 
well furnished), than from books. 

I have said nothing of his style, which those who are 
better judges think he was not altogether so happy in, as in 
his experiments. I do not call it affected, but doubtless not 
answerable to the rest of his great and shining parts; and 
yet, to do him right, it was much improved in his Theodora^ 
and latter writings. 

In his diet (as in habit) he was extremely temperate and 



324 EVELYN 

plain; nor could I ever discern in him the least passion, 
transport, or censoriousness, whatever discourse the times 
suggested. All was tranquil, easy, serious, discreet, and 
profitable; so as, besides Mr. Hobbes, whose hand was against 
everybody, and who admired nothing but his own, Francis 
Linus excepted (who, yet with much civility, wrote against 
him), I do not remember he had the least antagonist. In 
the afternoons he was seldom without company, which was 
sometimes so incommodious, that he now and then repaired 
to a private lodging in another quarter of the town, and at 
other times (as the season invited) diverted himself in the 
country, among his noble relations. 

He was rather tall and slender of stature, for most part 
valetudinary, pale, and much emaciated; not unlike his picture 
in Gresham College, which, with an almost impudent impor- 
tunity, was, at the request of the society, hardly extorted, or 
rather stolen, from this modest gentleman, by Sir Edmund 
King, after he had refused it to his nearest relations. 

In his first addresses, being to speak or answer, he did 
sometimes a little hesitate, rather than stammer, or repeat the 
same word; imputable to an infirmity, which, since my 
remembrance, he had exceedingly overcome. This, as it made 
him somewhat slow and deliberate, so, after the first effort, 
he proceeded without the least interruption in his discourse. 
And I impute this impediment much to the frequent attacks 
of palsy, contracted, I fear, not a little by his often attendance 
on chemical operations. It has plainly astonished me to have 
seen him so often recover, when he has not been able to move, 
or bring his hand to his mouth ; and, indeed, the contexture 
of his body, during the best of his health, appeared to me so 
delicate, that I have frequently compared him to a chrystal 
or Venice glass, which, though wrought never so thin and 
fine, being carefully set up, would outlast the hardier metals 
of daily use; and he was withal as clear and candid; not a 
blemish or spot to tarnish his reputation; and he lasted 



TO WOTTON. 125 

accordingly, though not to a great, yet competent age; three- 
score years, I think ; and to many more he might, I am per- 
suaded, have arrived, had not his beloved sister, the lady 
Viscountess Ranelagh, with whom he lived, a person of 
extraordinary talent, and suitable to his religious and philo- 
sophical temper, died before him. But it was then he began 
evidently to droop apace; nor did he, I think, survive her 
above a fortnight. But of this last scene I can say little, 
being unfortunately absent, and not knowing of the danger till 
he was past recovery. 

His funeral (at which I was present) was decent; and 
though without the least pomp, yet accompanied with a great 
appearance of persons of the best and noble quality, besides 
his own relations. 

He lies interred (near his sister) in the chancel of St. 
Martin's Church, the Lord Bishop of Salisbury preaching the 
funeral sermon, with that eloquence natural to him on such 
and all other occasions. The sermon, you know, is printed, 
with the panegyric so justly due to his memory. Whether 
there have been since any other monument erected on him I 
do not know, nor is it material. His name (like that of 
Joseph Scaliger) were alone a glorious epitaph. 

And now, sir, I am again to implore your pardon for 
giving you this interruption with things so confusedly huddled 
up, this very afternoon, as they crowded into my thoughts; 
The subject, you see, is fruitful, and almost inexhaustible. 
Argument fit for no man's pen but Mr. Wotton's. Oblige, 
then, all the world, and with it, 

Sir, 

Wotton, 30 Mar. 1696. Your, &c. 



326 N0RRIS TO MRS. CABEL 

LETTER XXV. 

John Norris to Mrs. Eli%. Cabel and Mrs. 
Mary Prowse. — A Dedication. 

Of the amiable successor of Herbert in the rectory of Bemerton, 
more will be said in another place. The purity of his spirit, the 
ardour of his devotion, the enthusiasm of his poetry, impart to his 
character a peculiar charm. His theological works, with some 
defects of principle, are extremely valuable both for the originality 
of their views, the clearness of their argument, and the elegance of 
their composition. The following letter, tinctured with the quaint- 
ness of his poetry, was prefixed to the fourth volume of his Prac- 
tical Discourses. Norris was born in 1657, and died in 1711. 



Give me leave, good ladies, to adorn a book (that does not 
indeed deserve the honour of such a patronage) with the 
inscription of those recommending names, which near relation, 
and a very excelling worth, have combined to endear to me. 
I have been hitherto paying my addresses abroad, and now, 
like one that has been travelling some while in foreign parts, 
find an inclination to make a visit nearer home ; but I do not 
direct these papers to you so much for your improvement 
either in knowledge, or in life and practice, as to satisfy my 
own obligations, and to discharge a debt of honour and grati- 
tude ; nor, indeed, can I hope to make you much wiser, or 
better, by anything that is here offered. Your eminent and 
exemplary practice of your duty shows that you well under- 
stand it, and all that have the happiness of your acquaintance 
know that you live, every day, better sermons than I can 
preach : and I heartily wish we had more such bright examples 
of piety, and living systems of morality, to give light and 
warmth to a benighted and frozen age ; and that the rest of 
the world were but as well enlightened as that sphere is 
wherein you move. But you would much rather your light 
should shine out from you, than be returned back to you. I 



AND MRS. PROWSE. 127 

must not, therefore, commend yon, any more than I need 
instruct you. I pretend, indeed, to do neither, but only 
send these papers by way of respect and civility to wait on 
you; and if you please to receive them, or shall think them 
worthy to make any part of the furniture of your closets, or 
of the entertainment of your vacant hours, the honour will be 
equal to the ambition, and beyond the deserts of, 
Ladies, 
Your most affectionate kinsman, 

and most obliged and humble servant, 

J. Norris. 



LETTER XXYI. 



Daniel Defoe to his Son-in-law, Mr. Baker. — 
Pathetic complaints of the cruelty of his Son. 

The most voluminous and the most natural writer in our lan- 
guage might be expected to excel in the familiar communication 
of his sufferings and hopes, to a near and beloved relation. English 
literature contains no page of livelier pathos than the following 
picture of a father, broken-hearted through the cruelty of a child. 
Mr. Baker, whom Defoe's daughter, Sophia, had married, contri- 
buted some valuable papers to natural history. The author of 
Robinson Crusoe died, it is supposed, in insolvent circumstances, 
April, 1731, in the parish of St. Giles, Cripplegate. 



About two miles from Greenwich, Kent. 

Tuesday, Aug. 12, 1730. 
Dear Mr. Baker, 

I have your very kind and affectionate letter of the 
first, but not come to my hand until the tenth; where it had 
been delayed 1 know not. As your kind manner, and kinder 
thought from which it flows, (for I take all you say to be as 
I always believed you to be, sincere and Nathaniel-like, with- 
out guile,) was a particular satisfaction to me; so the stop of 



128 DANIEL DEFOE 

a letter, however it happened, deprived me of that cordial too 
many days, considering how much I stood in need of it, to 
support a mind sinking under the weight of an affliction 
too heavy for my strength, and looking on myself as aban- 
doned of every comfort, every friend, and every relative, 
except such only as are able to give me no assistance. I was 
sorry you should say at the beginning of your letter you were 
debarred seeing me. Depend upon my sincerity for this. I 
am far from debarring you. On the contrary, it would be a 
greater comfort to me than any I now enjoy, that I could 
have your agreeable visits with safety, and could see both 
you and my dearest Sophia, could it be without giving her 
the grief of seeing her father in tenebris, and under the load of 
insupportable sorrows. I am sorry I must open my griefs so 
far as to tell her, that it is not the blow I received from a 
wicked, perjured, and contemptible enemy, that has broken 
in upon my spirit ; which, as she well knows, has carried me 
on through greater disasters than these. But it has been the 
injustice, unkindness, and, I must say, inhuman dealing of 
my own son, which has both ruined my family, and, in a 
word, has broken my heart; and, as I am at this time under a 
weight of heavy illness, which I think will be a fever, I take 
this occasion to vent my grief in the breasts of those who I know 
will make a prudent use of it, and tell you, that nothing but 
this has conquered, or could conquer me, Et tu quoque, Brute! 
I depended upon him; I trusted him; I gave up my two dear 
unprovided children into his hands; but he has no compas- 
sion, and suffers them, and their poor dying mother, to beg 
their bread at his door, and to crave, as if it were an alms, 
what he is bound under hand and seal, besides the most 
sacred promises, to supply them with ; himself, at the same 
time, living in a profusion of plenty. It is too much for me, 
excuse my infirmity, — I can say no more, — my heart is too 
full. I only ask one thing of you, as a dying request: stand 
by them when I am gone, and let them not be wronged, 



TO MB. BAKER. 129 

while he is able to do them right. Stand by them as a 
brother; and if you have anything within you owing to my 
memory, who have bestowed upon you the best gift I had to 
give, let them not be injured and trampled on by false pre- 
tences, and unnatural reflections. I hope they will want no 
help but that of comfort and counsel; but that they will, 
indeed, want, being too easy to be managed by words and 
promises. 

It adds to my grief, that it is so difficult to me to see you. 
I am at a distance from London, in Kent; nor have I a lodg- 
ing in London; nor have I been at that place in the Old 
Bailey, since I wrote to you, I was removed from it. At 
present I am weak, having had some fits of a fever that have 
left me low: but those things much more. I have not seen 
son or daughter, wife or child, many weeks, and know not 
which way to see them. They dare not come by water, and 
by land there is no coach : and I know not what to do. 

Jt is not possible for me to come to Enfield, unless you 
could find a retired lodging for me, where I might not be 
known, and might have the comfort of seeing you both, now 
and then: upon such a circumstance, I could gladly give the 
days to solitude, to have the comfort of an half hour, now 
and then, with you both for two or three weeks. But just to 
come and look at you, and retire immediately, it is a burden 
too heavy. The parting will be a price beyond the enjoy- 
ment. I would say, (I hope,) with comfort, that it is yet 
well I am so near my journey's end, and am hastening to 
the place where the weary are at rest, and where the wicked 
cease to trouble; be it that the passage is rough, and the 
day stormy. By what way soever He please to bring me to 
the end of it, I desire to finish life with this temper of 
soul in all cases: TeDeum laudamus. I congratulate you on 
the occasion of your happy advance in your employment. May- 
all you do be prosperous, and all you meet with pleasant ; and 
may you both escape the tortures and troubles of uneasy life. 

F 



Ha4j4 



130 DANIEL DEFOE TO MR. BAKER. 

May you sail the dangerous voyage of life with a forcing wind, 
and make the port of heaven without a storm. It adds to 
my grief, that I must never see the pledge of your mutual love, 
my little grandson. Give him my blessing, and may he be 
to you both your joy in youth and your comfort in age, and 
never add a sigh to your sorrow. But, alas ! that is not to 
be expected. Kiftaft my dear Sophy once more for me; and 
if I must see her no more, tell her this is from a father that 
loved her above all his comforts, to his last breath. 

Your unhappy, 

Daniel Defoe. 



LETTER XXYII. 



Dean Berkeley to Pope. — Description of the Island of 
Inarime. 

Swift painted a very agreeable portrait of Berkeley in a letter 
to Lord Carteret. He seems to have possessed the art of attaching to 
himself all who knew him. Atterbury, after a single interview, 
declared his opinion of him in these emphatic words : — " So much 
understanding, so much knowledge, so much innocence, and such 
humility, I did not think had been the portion of any but angels, 
till I saw this gentleman." Blackwell, whom he was desirous of 
taking out as a professor in the proposed college at the Bermudas, 
has pronounced a similar eulogium. Of the fervour and vivacity 
of his fancy, an illustration is afforded by a story which Lord 
Bathurste communicated to Dr. Warton. — "All the members of 
the Scriblerus Club being met at his house at dinner, they agreed 
to rally Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his scheme at the 
Bermudas. Berkeley, having listened to all the lively things they 
had to say, begged to be heard in his turn, and displayed his plan 
with such astonishing and animated force of eloquence and enthu- 
siasm, that they were struck dumb, and, after some pause, rose up 
all together with earnestness, exclaiming, " Let us all set out with 
him immediately." 

Berkeley accompanied the son of the Bishop of Clogher in a tour 
through the south of Europe. While at Paris, he visited the phi- 



DEAN BERKELEY TO POPE. 131 

losopher Malebranche, whom he is reported to have found in his 
cell preparing a medicine in a small pipkin for an inflammation of 
the lungs, under which he was suffering. The conversation turned 
upon the non-existence of matter, and Malebranche argued with 
an impetuositjr, which, by aggravating the disorder, occasioned his 
death a few days after. Sir James Mackintosh regretted that 
Berkeley had not introduced this dramatic scene into one of his 
own beautiful dialogues. Berkeley was at this time in his 31st, 
and Malebranche in his 77th year. Mackintosh has traced a 
resemblance in the features of their character. They were, in- 
deed, both amply endowed with imagination and invention; 
but, while Malebranche regarded poetry with invincible disgust, 
Berkeley not only wrote harmonious verses himself, but possessed 
the friendship of one of the greatest masters of the art, who, in . 
a famous line, assigned 

" To Berkeley ev'ry virtue under heaven." 

During his residence in Italy, Berkeley accumulated, with great 
diligence, materials for a history of Sicily, which were lost in the 
passage to Naples. He had the qualities of a traveller in the 
highest perfection. Blackwell says, that he travelled over a great 
part of Sicily on foot, climbing up mountains, and creeping into 
caverns. To the widest views in knowledge and literature he 
united the minutest examinations of detail. In the island, to 
which he gives the name of Inarime, the reader will recognise the 
modern Ischia. 



Naples, Oct. 22, N.S.,1717. 

I have long had it in my thoughts to trouble you with a 
letter, but was discouraged for want of something that I could 
think worth sending fifteen hundred miles. 

Italy is such an exhausted subject that, I dare say, you 
would easily forgive my saying nothing of it; and the ima- 
gination of a poet is a thing so nice and delicate, that it is no 
easy matter to find out images capable of giving pleasure to 
one of the few, who, (in any age,) have come up to that cha- 
racter. I am, nevertheless, lately returned from an island, 
where I passed three or four months; which, were it set out 
in its true colours, might, methinks, amuse you agreeably 

F 2 



132 DEAN BERKELEY 

enough for a minute or two. The island Inarime is an epi- 
tome of the whole earth, containing, within the compass of 
eighteen miles, a wonderful variety of hills, dales, rugged 
rocks, fruitful plains, and barren mountains, all thrown toge- 
ther in a most romantic confusion. The air is, in the hottest 
season, constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the sea. 
The vales produce excellent wheat, and Indian corn; but are 
mostly covered with vineyards, intermixed with fruit-trees. 
Besides the common kinds, as cherries, apricots, peaches, &c, 
they produce oranges, limes, almonds, pomegranates, figs, 
water-melons, and many other fruits unknown to our cli- 
mates, which lie everywhere open to the passenger. The 
hills are the greater part covered to the top with vines, some 
with chestnut-groves, and others with thickets of myrtle and 
lentiscus. The fields on the northern side are divided by 
hedge-rows of myrtle. Several fountains and rivulets add to 
the beauty of this landscape, which is likewise set off by the 
variety of some barren spots and naked rocks. But that 
which crowns the scene is a large mountain rising out of the 
middle of the island, (once a ferrible volcano, by the ancients 
called Mons Epomeus;) its lower parts are adorned with vines 
and other fruits; the middle affords pasture to flocks of goats 
and sheep; and the top is a sandy pointed rock, from which 
you have the finest prospect in the world, surveying at one 
view, besides several pleasant islands lying at your feet, a 
tract of Italy about three hundred miles in length, from 
the Promontory of Antium to the Cape of Palinurus: the 
greater part of which hath been sung by Homer and Virgil, 
as making a considerable part of the travels and adventures 
of their two heroes. The Islands Caprea, Prochyta, and 
Parthenope, together with Cajeta, Cumas, Monte Miseno, the 
habitations of Circe, the Syrens, and the Lsestrigones, the bay 
of Naples, the Promontory of Minerva, and the whole Cam- 
pagnia Felice, make but a part of this noble landscape; which 
would demand an imagination as warm, and numbers as flow- 



TO POPE. 133 

ing, as your own to describe it. The inhabitants of this deli- 
cious isle, as they are without riches and honours, so they are 
without the vices and follies that attend them; and were they 
but as much strangers to revenge as they are to avarice and 
ambition, they might in fact answer the poetical notions of 
the golden age. But they have got as an alloy to their hap- 
piness, an ill-habit of murdering one another on slight offences. 
TVe had an instance of this the second night after our arrival, 
a youth of eighteen being shot dead by our door; and yet, by 
the sole secret of minding our own business, we found a means 
of living securely among those dangerous people. Would 
you know how we pass the time at Naples? Our chief 
entertainment is the devotion of our neighbours : besides the 
gaiety of their churches, (where folks go to see what they 
call una bella devotione, i. e. a sort of religious opera:) they 
make fire-works almost every week, out of devotion; the 
streets are often hung with arras, out of devotion; and (what 
is still more strange,) the ladies invite gentlemen to their 
houses, and treat them with music and sweetmeats, out of 
devotion : in a word, were it not for this devotion of its inha- 
bitants, Naples would have little else to recommend it beside 
the air and situation. Learning is in no very thriving state 
here, as, indeed, no where else in Italy; however, anion o- 
many pretenders, some men of taste are to be met with. A 
friend of mine told me, not long since, that, being to visit 
Salvini at Florence, he found him reading your Homer: he 
liked the notes extremely, and could find no other fault with 
the version, but that he thought it approached too near a 
paraphrase; which shows him not to be sufficiently acquainted 
with our language. 1 wish you health to go on with that 
noble work; and when you have that, I need not wish you 
success. You will do me the justice to believe, that, what- 
ever relates to your welfare, is sincerely wished, by 

Your, &c. 



J 34 GAY 



LETTER XXVIII. 

Qay to . A Thunder-storm in Autumn, — 

The Village Lovers. 

It was a saying of Swift, that he sometimes read a book with 
pleasure, although he detested the author; and the reader of Gay 
will often feel an interest in the writer, while he disapproves of his 
principles. Johnson portrays him the favourite of an association 
of wits, who regarded him as a play-fellow, rather than a partner. 
He certainly possessed none of the qualities of a dictator ; and if 
he had the affection of his friends, cared nothing for their vene- 
ration. Pope always mentioned him with the warmest regard. 
" Would to God," he wrote to Swift, " the man we have lost had 
not been so amiable, nor so good ; but that is a wish for our own 
sake, not for his." And more tenderly still in another letter to the 
Dean, " I wished vehemently to have seen him in a condition of 
living independent, and to have lived in perfect indolence the rest 
of our days together, the two most idle, most innocent, most un- 
designing poets of our age." Swift's friendship for Gay glows 
through his misanthropy. When he wished to paint the misery 
of his residence in Ireland, he called it a banishment from " St. 
John, Pope, and Gay ;" and upon the letter in which Pope com- 
municated to him the death of their gentle companion, he inscribed 
a most affecting memorandum. Gay was too lazy to be a voluminous 
correspondent, but his style is easy, natural, and amusing. He had 
accompanied Pope to the seat of Lord Harcourt in Oxfordshire, and 
during his visit the accident occurred, which suggested this beau- 
tiful and affecting letter. 



Stanton Harcourt, Aug. 19, 1718. 
The only news that you can expect to have from me 
here, is news from heaven, for I am quite out of the 
world; and there is scarce anything can reach me except 
the voice of thunder, which undoubtedly you have heard too. 
We have read in old authors of high towers levelled by it to 
the ground, while the humbler valleys have escaped: the 
only thing that is proof against it is the laurel, which, how- 
ever, I take to be no great security to the brains of modern 



to — 135 

authors. But to let you see that the contrary to this often 
happens, I must acquaint you, that the highest and most 
extravagant heap of towers in the universe which is in this 
neighbourhood, stand still undefaced, while a cock of barley 
in our next field has been consumed to ashes. Would to God 
that this heap of barley had been all that perished ! for, un- 
happily, beneath this little shelter sat two much more con- 
stant lovers than ever were found in romance under the shade 
of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a well-set man, of about 
five-and-twenty ; Sarah Drew might be rather called comely 
than beautiful, and was about the same age. They had passed 
through the various labours of the year together, with the 
greatest satisfaction : if she milked, it was his morning and 
evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but 
last fair that he bought her a present of green silk for her 
straw-hat ; and the posie on her silver ring was of his choos- 
ing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighbourhood > 
for scandal never affirmed that they had any other views 
than the lawful possession of each other in marriage. It was 
that very morning that he had obtained the consent of her 
parents ; and it was but till the next week that they were to 
wait to be happy. Perhaps, in the intervals of their work, 
they were now talking of the wedding-clothes; and John 
was suiting several sorts of poppies and field-flowers to her 
complexion, to choose her a knot for the wedding-day. 
"While they were thus busied, (it was on the last of July, 
between two and three in the afternoon,) the clouds grew 
black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued, 
that all the labourers made the best of their way to what 
shelter the trees and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightened, 
and fell down in a swoon on a heap of barley. John, who 
never separated from her, sat down by her side, having raked 
together two or three heaps, the better to secure her from the 
storm. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack, as if 
heaven had split asunder : every one was now solicitous for the 



136 GAY TO 



safety of his neighbour, and called to one another throughout 
the field : no answer being returned to those who called to 
our lovers, th ey stepped to the place where they lay ; they 
perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied this 
faithful pair : John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the 
other held over her, as to skreen her from the lightning. 
They were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. 
Sarah's left eye -brow was singed, and there appeared a black 
spot on her breast : her lover was all over black, but not 
the least signs of life were found in either. Attended by their 
melancholy companions, they were conveyed to the town, and 
the next day were interred in Stanton Harcourt church-yard. 
My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. Pope's and my request, has caused 
a stone to be placed over them, upon condition that we 
furnished the epitaph, which is as follows : — 

When eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, 
On the same pile the faithful pair expire : 
Here pitying, heaven that virtue mutual found, 
And blasted both that it might neither wound. 
Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, 
Sent his own lightning, and the victim seized. 

But, my Lord is apprehensive the country people will not 
understand this ; and Mr. Pope says he'll make one with 
something of Scripture in it, and with as little of poetry as 
Hopkins and Sternhold. 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER XXIX. 

Gay to Swift, — With a Postscript by Pope, respecting 
his Infirmities, SfC. 

Dec. 1, 1731. 

You used to complain that Mr. Pope and I would not 
let you speak : you may now be even with me, and take it 
out in writing. If you don't send to me now and then, the 



GAY TO SWIFT. 137 

post-office will think me of no consequence, for I have no 
correspondent but you. 

You may keep as far from us as you please ; you cannot 
be forgotten by those who ever knew you, and therefore 
please me by sometimes showing that I am not forgot by you. 
I have nothing to take me off from my friendship to you : I 
seek no new acquaintance, and court no favour ; I spend no 
shillings in coaches or chairs to levees or great visits ; and, as 
I don't want the assistance of some that I formerly conversed 
with, I will not so much as seem to seek to be a dependant. 
As to my studies, I have not been entirely idle, though I can- 
not say that I have yet perfected anything. What I have 
done, is something in the way of those fables I have already 
jDiiblished. All the money I get is by saving, so that by 
habit there may be some hopes, (if I grow richer,) of becoming 
a miser. All misers have their excuses ; the motive to my 
parsimony is independence. If I were to be represented by 
the Duchess, (she is such a downright niggard for me,) this 
character might not be allowed me ; but I really think I am 
covetous enough for any one who lives at the court-end of the 
town, and who is as poor as myself : for I don't pretend that 

I am equally saving with S k. Mr. Lewis desired you 

might be told that he hath five pounds of yours in his hands, 
which he fancies you may have forgot, for he will hardly allow 
that a verse-man can have a just knowledge of his own affairs. 
"When you got rid of your law-suit, I was in hopes that you 
had got your own, and was free from every vexation of the 
law; but Mr. Pope tells me, you are not entirely out of your 
perplexity, though you have the security now in your own 
possession ; but still your case is not so bad as Captain 
Gulliver's, who was ruined by having a decree for him with 
costs. I have had an injunction for me against pirating 
booksellers, which I am sure to get nothing by, and will, I 
fear, in the end, drain me of some money. "When I began 
this prosecution, I fancied there would be some end to it ; but 

F3 



138 GAY 

the law still goes on, and 'tis probable I shall sometime or 
other see an attorney's bill as long as the book. Poor Duke 
Disney is dead, and hath left what he had among his friends, 
among whom are Lord Bolingbroke 500/., Mr. Pelham 500/. 
Sir William Wyndham's youngest son, 500/., Gen. Hill, 
500/., Lord Massam's son, 500/. 

You have the good wishes of those I converse with ; they 
know they gratify me, when they remember you; but I 
really think they do it purely for your own sake. I am 
satisfied with the love and friendship of good men, and envy 
not the demerits of those who are most conspicuously dis- 
tinguished. Therefore, as I set a just value upon your 
friendship, you cannot please me more than letting me now 
and then know that you remember me, (the only satisfaction 
of distant friends.) 

P.S. — Mr. Gay's is a good letter, mine will be a very dull 
one ; and yet, what you will think the worst of it is, what 
should be its excuse, that I write in a headache that has lasted 
three days. I am never ill but I think of your ailments, 
and repine that they mutually hinder our being together : 
though in one point I am apt to differ from you, for you shun 
your friends when you are in those circumstances, and I desire 
them ; your way is the more generous, mine the more tender. 

Lady took your letter very kindly, for I had prepared 

her to expect no answer under a twelvemonth ; but kindness 
perhaps is a word not applicable to courtiers. However, she 
is an extraordinary woman there, who will do you common 
justice. For God's sake why all the scruple about Lord 

B. 's keeping your horses, who has a park ; or about 

my keeping you on a pint of wine a-day ? We are infinitely 
richer than you imagine ; John Gay shall help me to enter- 
tain you, though you come like King Lear with fifty knights 
— though such prospects as I wish, cannot now be formed for 
fixing you with us, time may provide better before you part 



TO SWIFT. 139 

again. The old lord may die, the benefice may drop, or, at 
worst you may carry me into Ireland. You will see a work 

of Lord B 's, and one of mine ; which, with a just 

neglect of the present age, consult only posterity ; and, with a 
noble scorn of politics, aspire at philosophy. I am glad you 
resolve to meddle no more with the low concerns and interests 
of parties, even of countries, (for countries are but larger 
parties.) Quid verum atque decern, curare, et rogare, nostrum 
sit. I am much pleased with your design upon Rochefou- 
cault's maxims, pray finish it. I am happy whenever you 
join our names together : So would Dr. Arbuthnot be, but at 
this time he can be pleased with nothing ; for his darling son 
is dying in all probability, by the melancholy account I 
received this morning. 

The paper you ask me about is of little value. It might 
have been a seasonable satire upon the scandalous language 
and passion with which men of condition have stooped to 
treat one another: surely they sacrifice too much to the 
people, when they sacrifice their own characters, families, &c, 
to the diversion of that rabble of readers. I agree with you 
in my contempt of most popularity, fame, &c. Even as a 
writer I am cool in it ; and whenever you see what I am now 
writing, you'll be convinced I would please but a few, and 
(if I could) make mankind less admirers and greater reasoners. 
I study much more to render my own portion of being easy, 
and to keep this peevish frame of the human body in good 
humour. Infirmities have not quite unmanned me, and it will 
delight you to hear that they are not increased, though not 
diminished. I thank God I do not very much want people 
to attend me, though my mother now cannot. When I am 
sick, I lie down ; when I am better, I rise up : I am used to 
the headache, &c. If greater pains arrive, (such as my late 
rheumatism,) the servants bathe and plaster me, or the surgeon 
scarifies me, and I bear it, because I must. This is the evil 
of nature, not of fortune. I am just now as well as when 



MO GAY TO SWIFT. 

you was here : I pray God you are no worse. I sincerely 
wish my life were past near you, and, such as it is, I would 
not repine at it. All you mention remember you, and wish 
you here. 



LETTER XXX. 

Swift to Gay. — A Portrait. 

When this letter was written, Gay was residing in the family 
of the Duke of Queensberry. It is an admirable specimen of the 
Dean's caustic humour, and of his strong practical sense. Of Swift 
we should know little, but for his journals, and the occasional 
allusions to his peculiarities in the letters of his friends. " You 
will understand me," writes Lord Bolingbroke ; " and I conjure 
you to be persuaded, that if I could have half an hour's conversa- 
tion with you, for which I would barter whole hours of my life, 
you would stare, haul your wig, and bite paper, more than ever 
you did in your life '"'." Swift shared with his friend Pope in the 
enmity of Lady Wortley Montagu, who undervalued his wit, 
ai)d found his prototype in Caligula. 



Dublin, May 4, 1732. 
I am as lame as when you writ your letter, and 
almost as lame as your letter itself, for want of that limb 
from my Lady Duchess, which you promised, and without 
which I wonder how it could limp hither. I am not in a 
condition to make a true step even on Amesbury Downs, and 
I declare that a corporeal false step is worse than a political 
one ; nay, worse than a thousand political ones, for which I 
appeal to courts and ministers, who hobble on and prosper, 
without the sense of feeling. To talk of riding and walking, 
is insulting me, for I can as soon fly as do either. It is 
your pride or laziness, more than chair-hire, that makes 

* To Swift, October 23, 1716. 



SWIFT TO GAY. 141 

the town expensive. No honour is lost by walking in the 
dark : and in the day you may beckon a blackguard-boy 
under a gate near your visiting place, (experto crede,) save 
elevenpence, and get half-a-crowns worth of health. The 
worst of my present misfortune is, that I eat and drink, and 
can digest neither for want of exercise; and to increase 
my misery, the knaves are sure to find me at home, and make 
huge void spaces in my cellars. I congratulate with you, for 
losing your great acquaintance ; in such a case, philosophy 
teaches that we must submit, and be content with good ones. 
I like Lord Cornbury's refusing his pension, but I demur at 
his being elected for Oxford ; which, I conceive, is wholly 
changed, and entirely devoted to new principles; so it 
appeared to me the two last times I was there. 

I find, by the whole cast of your letter, that you are as 
giddy and as volatile as ever, just the reverse of Mr. Pope, 
who hath always loved a domestic life from his youth. I was 
going to wish you had some little place that you could call 
your own, but I profess, I do not know you well enough to 
contrive any one system of life that would please you. You 
pretend to preach up riding and walking to the Duchess, yet 
from my knowledge of you, after twenty years, you always 
joined a violent desire of perpetually shifting places and com- 
pany, with a rooted laziness, and an utter impatience of 
fatigue. A coach and six horses is the utmost exercise you 
can bear, and this only when you can fill it with such company 
as is best suited to your taste ; and how glad would you be if 
it could waft you in the air to avoid jolting ? while I, who 
am so much later in life, can, or at least could, ride 500 miles 
on a trotting horse. You mortally hate writing, only 
because it is the thing you chiefly ought to do ; as well to 
keep up the vogue you have in the world, as to make you 
easy in your fortune : You are merciful to every thing but 
money, your best friend, whom you treat with inhumanity. 
Be assured, I will hire people to watch all your motions, and 



142 SWIFT TO GAY. 

to return me a faithful account. Tell me, have you cured 
your absence of mind ? can you attend to trifles ? can you at 
Amesbury write domestic libels to divert the family and 
neighbouring squires for five miles round ? or venture so far 
on horseback, without apprehending a stumble at every step? 
can you set the footmen a-laughing as they wait at dinner ? 
and do the Duchess's women admire your wit? in what 
esteem are you with the vicar of the parish ? can you play 
with him at backgammon? have the farmers found out that 
you cannot distinguish rye from barley, or an oak from a 
crab-tree ? you are sensible that I know the full extent of your 
country skill is in fishing for roaches, or gudgeons at the highest. 

I love to do you good offices with your friends, and there- 
fore desire you will show this letter to the Duchess, to 
improve her Grace's good opinion of your qualifications, and 
convince her how useful you are like to be in the family. 
Her Grace shall have the honour of my correspondence again, 
when she goes to Amesbury. Hear a piece of Irish news ; I 
buried the famous General Meredyth's father last night in 
my cathedral ; he was ninety-six years old : so that Mrs. 
Pope may live seven years longer. 

You saw Mr. Pope in health ; pray, is he generally more 
healthy than when I was amongst you ? I would know how 
your own health is, and how much wine you drink in a day ; 
my stint in company is a pint at noon, and half as much at 
night ; but I often dine at home like a hermit, and then I 
drink little or none at all. Yet I differ from you, for I would 
have society, if I could" get what I like — people of middle 
understanding, and middle rank. 

Adieu. 



SWIFT TO LORD BOLINGBROKE. 143 



LETTER XXXI. 

Swift to Lord Bolingbroke. — Ambitious Hopes ; 
Anecdote of his Early Days. 

Dublin, April 5, 1729. 
I do not think it could be possible for me to hear better 
news than that of your getting over your scurvy suit, which 
always hung as a dead weight on my heart. I hated it in all 
its circumstances, as it affected your fortune and quiet, and in 
a situation of life that must make it every way vexatious ; 
and as I am infinitely obliged to you for the justice you do 
me, in supposing your affairs do at least concern me as much 
as my own, so I would never have pardoned your omitting it. 
But before I go on, I cannot forbear mentioning what I read 
last summer in a newspaper, that you were writing the history 
of your own times. I suppose such a report might arise from 
what was not secret among your friends, of your intention to 
write another kind of history, which you often promised Mr. 
Pope and me to do : I know he desires it very much, and I am 
sure I desire nothing more, for the honour and love I bear 
you, and the perfect knowledge I have of your public virtue. 
My lord, I have no other notion of economy than that it is 
the parent of liberty and ease; and I am not the only friend 
you have who hath chid you in his heart for the neglect of it, 
though not with his mouth, as I have done. For there is a 
silly error in the world, even among friends otherwise very 
good, not to intermeddle with mens affairs in such nice 
matters : and, my lord, I have made a maxim, that should 
be writ in letters of diamonds, that a wise man ought to have 
money in his head, but not in his heart. Pray, my lord, 
inquire whether your prototype, my lord Digby, after the 
restoration, when he was at Bristol, did not take some care 
of his fortune, notwithstanding that quotation I once sent you 
out of his speech to the House of Commons. In my con- 



144 



SWIFT 



science, I believe fortune, like other drabs, values a man gra- 
dually less for every year he lives. I have demonstration for 
it; because if I play at piquet for sixpence with a man or a 
woman two years younger than myself, I always lose; and 
there is a young girl of twenty, who never fails of winning 
my money at backgammon, though she is a bungler, and the 
game be ecclesiastic. As to the public, I confess nothing 
could cure my itch of meddling with it but these frequent 
returns of deafness, which have hindered me from passing last 
winter in London; yet I cannot but consider the perfidious- 
ness of some people, who I thought when I was last there, 
upon a change that happened, were the most impudent in for- 
getting their professions that I have ever known. Pray, will 
you please to take your pen, and blot me out that political 
maxim from whatever book it is in, that Res nolunt diu male 
administrdri j the commonness makes me not know who is 
the author, but sure he must be some modern. 

I am sorry for Lady Bolingbroke's ill-health; but I pro- 
test I never knew a very deserving person of that sex, who 
had not too much reason to complain of ill-health. I never 
wake without finding life a more insignificant thing than it 
was the day before ; which is one great advantage I get by 
living in this country, where there is nothing I shall be sorry 
to lose. But my greatest misery is recollecting the scene of 
twenty years past, and then, all on a sudden, dropping into 
the present. I remember, when I was a little boy, I felt a 
great fish at the end of my line, which I drew up almost on 
the ground, but it dropped in, and the disappointment vexes 
me to this very day; and, I believe it was the type of all my 
future disappointments. I should be ashamed to say this to 
you, if you had not a spirit fitter to bear your own misfor- 
tunes than I have to think of them. Is there patience left to 
reflect, by what qualities wealth and greatness are got, and 
by what qualities they are lost ? I have read my friend Con- 
greve's verses to Lord Cobham, which end with a vile and 



TO LORD BOLINGBROKE. 145 

false moral, and I remember is not in Horace to Tibullus, 
which he imitates, " that all times are equally virtuous and 
vicious," wherein he differs from all poets, philosophers, and 
Christians, that ever writ. It is more probable, that there 
may be an equal quantity of virtues always in the world; but 
sometimes there may be a peck of it in Asia, and hardly a 
thimble-full in Europe. But if there be no virtue, there is 
abundance of sincerity ; for I will venture all I am worth, 
that there is not one human creature in power, who will not 
be modest enough to confess that he proceeds wholly upon a 
principle of corruption. I say this, because I have a scheme, 
in spite of your notions, to govern England upon the prin- 
ciples of virtue, and when the nation is ripe for it, I desire 
you will send for me. I have learned this by living like a 
hermit, by which I am got backwards about nineteen hundred 
years in the era of the world, and begin to wonder at the 
wickedness of men. I dine alone upon half a dish of meat, 
mix writer with my wine, walk ten miles a day, and read 
Baronius. Hie explicit Epistola ad Dom. Bolingbroke, et inci- 
pit ad amicum Pope. 

Having finished my Letter to Aristippus, I now begin 
to you. I was in great pain about Mrs. Pope, having heard 
from others that she was in a very dangerous way, which 
made me think it unseasonable to trouble you. I am ashamed 
to tell you, that, when I was very young, I had more desire 
to be famous than ever since; and fame, like all things else 
in this life, grows with me every day more a trifle. But 
you, who are so much younger, although you want that 
health you deserve, yet your spirits are as vigorous as if your 
body were sounder. I hate a crowd, where I have not an 
easy place to see and be seen. A great library always makes 
me melancholy, where the best author is as much squeezed, 
and as obscure, as a porter at a coronation. In my own little 
library, I value the compilements of Greevius and Grronovius, 
which make thirty-one volumes in folio, (and were given me 



146 SWIFT TO LORD BOLINGBROKE. 

by my Lord Bolingbroke,) more than all my books besides; 
because, whoever comes into my closet, casts his eyes imme- 
diately upon them, and will not vouchsafe to look upon Plato 
or Xenophon. I tell you it is almost incredible how, opinions 
change by the decline or decay of spirits, and I will further 
tell you, that all my endeavours, from a boy, to distinguish 
myself, were only for want of a great title and fortune, that I 
might be used like a lord by those who have an opinion of 
my parts; whether right or wrong, it is no great matter; and 
so the reputation of wit, or great learning, does the office of a 
blue ribbon, or of a coach and six horses. To be remembered 
for ever, on account of our friendship, is what would exceed- 
ingly please me; but yet I never loved to make a visit, or be 
seen walking with my betters, because they get all the eyes 
and civilities from me. I no sooner writ this than I corrected 
myself, and remembered Sir Fulk Greville's epitaph, — " Here 
lies, &c, who was friend to Sir Philip Sidney." And there- 
fore I most heartily thank you for your desire that I would 
record our friendship in verse, which, if I can succeed in, I 
will never desire to write one more line in poetry while I live. 
You must present my humble service to Mrs. Pope, and let 
her know I pray for her continuance in the world, for her own 
reason, that she may live to take care of you. 



LETTER XXXII. 



Pope to Wycherley. — Of Dryden, his Character, and 
Poetical Successors. 

Pope has recorded his intimacy with "Wycherley, by whose 
verses, he said, that he was " extremely plagued, up and down, 
for about two years." Forty years before his death, Wycherley 
lost his memory by a fever, and would repeat the same thought 
two or three times in a single page. He could not retain more 
than a sentence at a time. Pope's troublesome task of correction 



POPE TO WYCHERLEY. 147 

was aggravated by Wycherley's custom of reading himself to 
sleep, out of Montaigne, Rochefoucault, and Seneca, and of pro- 
ducing a poem on the following morning, into which he had, 
unconsciously, transplanted the thoughts of his favourite authors. 
His celebrated friend justly esteemed this habit one of the most 
singular phenomena in the history of the human mind. Wycher- 
ley's vanity could not endure the superior taste of his critic. 
" We were, however," says Pope, " pretty well together, to the 
last ; only his memory was so totally bad, that he did not remem- 
ber a kindness done to him, even from minute to minute. He was 
peevish, too, latterly; so that sometimes we were out a little, and 
sometimes in. He never did any unjust thing to me in his whole 
life ; and I went to see him on his death-bed." Pope, at the com- 
mencement of their correspondence, was sixteen, and Wycherley 
seventy years old. 



Binfield, in Windsor Forest, Dec. 26, 1704. 
It was certainly a great satisfaction to me, to see and con- 
verse with a man, whom, in his writings, I had so long known 
with pleasure; but it was a high addition to it to hear you, 
at our first meeting, doing justice to your dead friend, Mr. 
Dryden. I was not so happy as to know him ; Virgilium 
tantum vidi. Had I been born early enough, I must have 
known and loved him ; for I have been assured, not only by 
yourself, but by Mr. Congreve and Sir William Trumbull, that 
his personal qualities were as amiable as his poetical, notwith- 
standing the many libellous misrepresentations of them, against 
which, the former of these gentlemen has told me he will one 
day vindicate him. I suppose those injuries were begun by 
the violence of party; but 'tis no doubt they were continued 
by envy at his success and fame: and those scribblers who 
attacked him in latter times were only like gnats in a sum- 
mer's evening, which are never very troublesome but in the 
finest and most glorious season; for his fire, like the sun's, 
shined clearest towards its setting. You must not, therefore, 
imagine, that, when you told me my own performances were 
above those critics, I was so vain as to believe it; and yet I 



148 POPE TO WYCHERLEY. 

may not be so humble as to think myself quite below their 
notice. For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a 
natural inclination to carrion; and, though such poor writers 
as I are but beggars, no beggar is so poor but he can keep a cur, 
and no author is so beggarly but he can keep a critic. I am 
far from thinking the attacks of such people either any honour 
or dishonour, even to me, much less to Mr. Dryden. I agree 
with you, that whatever wits have risen since his death, are 
but like stars appearing when the sun is set, that twinkle 
only in his absence, and with the rays they have borrowed 
from him. Our wit, as you call it, is but reflection or imita- 
tion, therefore scarce to be called ours. True wit, I believe, 
may be denned a justness of thought and a facility of expres- 
sion. However, this is far from a complete definition ; pray, 
help me to a better, as I doubt not you can. 



LETTER XXXIII. 



To Steele, with Reflections upon early Death, and 
Allusions to his own Infirmities. 

July 15, 1712. 
You formerly observed to me, that nothing made a more 
ridiculous figure in a man s life, than the disparity we often 
find in him, sick and well. Thus, one of an unfortunate con- 
stitution is perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the 
weakness of his mind, and of his body, in their turns. I have 
had frequent opportunities of late to consider myself in these 
different views, and, I hope, have received some advantage 
by it, if what Waller says be true, that 

" The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made." 

Then surely sickness, contributing, no less than old age, to the 
shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the 



POPE TO STEELE. 149 

inward structure more plainly. Sickness is a sort of early old 
age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and 
inspires us with thoughts of a future, better than a thousand 
volumes of philosophers and divines. It gives so warning a 
concussion to those props of our vanity, our strength and 
youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when 
there is so little dependence upon our outworks. Youth, at 
the very best, is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler 
and smoother manner than age : 'tis like a stream that nou- 
rishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blos- 
som to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at 
the root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and 
openly with me; it has afforded several prospects of my 
danger, and given me an advantage, not very common to 
young men, that the attractions of the world have not dazzled 
me very much; and I begin, where most people end, with a 
full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and 
the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures, when a 
smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tenement of my body 
will fall in a little time; I am even as unconcerned as was that 
honest Hibernian, who, being in bed in the great storm some 
years ago, and told the house would tumble over his head, 
made answer, " What care I for the house ? I am only a 
lodger." I fancy it is the best time to die, when one is in 
the best humour; and, so excessively weak as I now am, I 
may say with conscience, I am not at all uneasy at the 
thought, that many men, whom I never had any esteem for, 
are likely to enjoy this world after mej When I reflect what 
an inconsiderable little atom every single man is, with respect 
to the whole creation, methinks, 'tis a shame to be concerned 
at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. The morn- 
ing after my exit, the sun will rise as bright as ever, the 
flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world 
will proceed in its old course, people will laugh as heartily 
and marry as fast as they were used to do. The memory of 



150 POPE TO STEELE. 

man, (as it is elegantly expressed in the Book of Wisdom,) 
passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but 
one day. There are reasons enough, in the fourth chapter of 
the same book, to make any young man contented with the 
prospect of death. " For honourable age is not that which 
standeth in length of time, or is measured by number of years. 
But wisdom is gray hair to men, and an unspotted life is old 
age. He was taken away speedily, lest wickedness should 
alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul." 



LETTER XXXIV. 



To a Friend,-^ Upon the Vanity of Human Learning 
and Ambition. 

July 13, 1714. 
You mention the account I gave you some time ago of the 
things which Phillips said in his foolishness ; but I cannot tell 
from anything in your letter, whether you received a long one 
from me about a fortnight since. It was principally intended 
to thank you for the last obliging favour you did me ; and, 
perhaps, for that reason you pass it in silence. I thei;e 
launched into some account of my temporal affairs, and intend 
now to give you some hints of my spiritual. The conclusion 
of your letter draws this upon you, where you tell me you 
prayed for me. Your proceeding, sir, is contrary to that of 
most other friends, who never talk of praying for a man after 
they have done him a service, but only when they will do 
him none. Nothing can be more kind than the hint you 
give me of the vanity of human sciences, which, I assure 
you, I am daily more convinced of; and, indeed, I have for 
some years past looked upon all of them as no better than 
amusements. To make them the ultimate end of our pursuit, 
is a miserable and short ambition, which will drop from us at 



POPE TO A FRIEND. 151 

every little disappointment here, and even in case of no dis- 
appointment here, will infallibly desert us hereafter. The 
utmost fame they are capable of bestowing, is never worth the 
pains they cost us, and the time they lose us. If you attain 
the top of your desires that way, all those who envy you will 
do you harm; and, of those who admire you, few will do you 
good. The unsuccessful writers are your declared enemies, 
and probably the successful your secret ones; for those hate 
not more to be excelled, than these to be rivalled. And at 
the upshot, after a life of perpetual application, you reflect that 
you have been doing nothing for yourself, and that the same, 
or less industry, might have gained you a friendship that can 
never deceive or end, a satisfaction which praise cannot be- 
stow, nor vanity feel, and a glory, which (though, in one 
respect, like fame, not to be had — till after death,) yet shall 
be felt and enjoyed to eternity. These, dear sir, are un- 
feignedly my sentiments, whenever I think at all; for half 
the things that employ our heads deserve not the name of 
thoughts, they are only stronger dreams of impressions upon 
the imagination: our schemes of government, our systems of 
philosophy, our golden worlds of poetry, are all but so many 
shadowy images and airy prospects, which arise to us but so 
much the livelier and more frequent, as we are overcast with 
the darkness, and disturbed with the fumes of human vanity. 
The same thing that makes old men willing to leave this 
world, makes me willing to leave poetry, — long habit, and 
weariness of the same track. Homer will work a cure upon 
me; fifteen thousand verses are equivalent to fourscore years, 
to make one old in rhyme; and I should be sorry and 
ashamed to go on jingling to the last step, like a wagoner's 
horse, in the same road, and so leave my bells to the next silly 
animal that will be proud of them. That man makes a 
mean figure in the eyes of reason, who is measuring syllables 
and coupling rhymes, when he should be mending his own 



152 POPE TO A FRIEND. 

soul, and securing his own immortality. If I had not this 
opinion, I should be unworthy even of those small and 
limited parts which God has given me; and unworthy the 
friendship of such a man as you. 



LETTER XXXV. 

To Swift. — On his Departure from Twickenham. 

"Pope," writes Lady Montagu, in one of her latest letters, 
" courted, with the utmost assiduity, all the old men from 
whom he could hope a legacy, — the duke of Buckingham, Lord 
Peterborough, Sir G. Kneller, Lord Bolingbroke, Mr. Wycherley, 
Mr. Congreve, Lord Harcourt, &c, and I do not doubt projected to 
sweep the Dean's whole inheritance, if he could have persuaded 
him to throw up his deanery, and come to reside in his house ; and 
his general preaching against money was meant to induce people to 
throw it away, that he might pick it up." This was said in the 
bitterness of her heart, after her quarrel with the poet had obli- 
terated the recollection of his flattery and his song. 



Aug. 22, 1726. 
Many a short sigh you cost me the day I left you, and 
many more you will cost me, till the day you return. I 
really walked about like a man banished, and when I came 
home, found it no home. 'Tis a situation like that of a limb 
lopped off, one is trying every minute unawares to use it, and 
finds it is not. I may say you have used me more cruelly 
than you have any other man ; you have made it more im- 
possible for me to live at ease without you; habitude itself 
would have done that, if I had less friendship in my nature 
than I have. Besides my natural memory of you, you have 
made a local one, which presents you to me in every place I 
frequent; I shall never more think of Lord Cobham's, the 
w T oods of Ciceter, or the pleasing prospect of Byberry, but 
your idea must be joined with them; nor see one seat in my 



POPE TO SWIFT. 153 

own garden, or one room in my house, without a phantom of 
you sitting or walking before me. I travelled with you 
to Chester, I felt the extreme heat of the weather, the inns, 
the roads, the confinement and closeness of the uneasy 
coach, and wished a hundred times I had either a deanery or 
a horse in my gift. In real truth, I have felt my soul 
peevish ever since with all about me, from a warm uneasy 
desire after you. I am gone out of myself to no purpose, and 
cannot catch you. Inhiat in pedes was not more properly 
applied to a poor dog after a hare, than to me after your 
departure. I wish I could think no more of it, but lie down 
and sleep till we meet again, and let that day, (how far soever 
off it be,) be the morrow. Since I cannot, may it be my 
amends, that everything you wish may attend you where you 
are, and that you may find every friend you have there in the 
state you wish him, or her; so that your visits to us may 
have no other effect, than the progress of a rich man to 
a remote estate, which he finds greater than he expected, 
which knowledge only serves to make him live happier where 
he is, with no disagreeable prospect if ever he should choose 
to remove. May this be your state till it become what I 
wish. But, indeed, I cannot express the warmth with which 
I wish you all things, and myself you. Indeed you are 
engraved elsewhere than on the cups you sent me, (with so 
kind an inscription,) and I might throw them into the 
Thames without injury to the giver. I am not pleased with 
them, but take them very kindly too ; and, had I suspected 
any such usage from you, I should have enjoyed your com- 
pany less than I really did, for at this rate I may say, 

Nee tecum possum vivere, nee sine te. 
I will bring you over just such another present when I go to 
the Deanery of St. Patrick's, which I promise you to do, if 
ever I am enabled to return your kindness. Donarem pa- 
teras, &c. Till then I'll drink, (or Gay shall drink,) daily 
healths to yon, and I'll add to your inscription the old Roman 



154 POPE TO SWIFT. 

vow for years to come, Votis X. votis XX. My mother's age 
gives me authority to hope it for yours. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXYI. 



Pope to Swift. — Gulliver; The Beggars' Opera; 
Old Age of his Mother; The Dunciad. 

Swift, in his reply to the following letter, gives his friend an 
account of the comforts he would find at the Deanery. " I say one 
thing, that both summers and winters are milder here than with 
you ; all things for life in general better for a middling fortune : 
you will have an absolute command of your time and company, 
with whatever obsequiousness or freedom you may expect or 
allow. I have an elderly housekeeper who hath been my wolf 
above thirty years, whenever I lived in this kingdom. I have the 
command of one or two villas near this town. You have a warm 
apartment in this house, and two gardens for amusement." In 
another letter, he confessed that he did not " converse with one 
creature of station or title," but could command the attendance of 
" a set of easy people," when he desired their company. Four 
years later he presented Gay with a more melancholy picture of 
his situation, living in a large house, thankful for the society of a 
friend, and usually obliged to " hire one" with a bottle of wine. 
Pope, after many ingenious devices and courtly expressions of 
regard, finally settled the question of an Irish journey, by express- 
ing his belief that " a sea-sickness would kill" him. Pope's filial 
affection is the most beautiful feature in his moral character. Who 
has forgotten his pathetic lines, warm from the heart : — 

Me, let the tender office long engage, 

To rock the cradle of reposing Age ; 

With lenient acts extend a Mother's breath, 

Make Langour smile, and smooth the bed of Death. 

Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 

And keep awhile one parent from the sky. 



I send you a very odd thing, a paper printed in Boston 
in New England; wherein you'll find a real person, a member 
of their parliament, of the name of Jonathan Gulliver. If 
the fame of that traveller has travelled thither, it has travelled 



POPE TO SWIFT. 



155 



very quick, to have folks christened already by the name of 
the supposed author. But if you object, that no child so 
lately christened could be arrived at years of maturity to be 
elected into parliament, I reply (to solve the riddle), that the 
person is an Anabaptist, and not christened till full age, 
which sets all right. However it be, the accident is very 
singular, that these two names should be united. 

Mr. Gay's Opera has been acted near forty days running, 
and will certainly continue the whole season. So he has 
more than a fence about his thousand pounds ; he'll soon be 
thinking of a fence about his two thousand. Shall no one of 
us live, as we would wish each other to live ? Shall we have 
no annuity: you no settlement on this side, and I no prospect 
of getting to you on the other? This world is made for 
Caesar; as Cato said, for ambitious, false, or flattering people 
to domineer in; nay, they would not, by their good will, 
leave us our very books, thoughts, or words in quiet. I 
despise the world ; yet, I assure you, more than either Gay 
or you, and the court more than all the rest of the world. 
As for those scribblers for whom you apprehend I would 
suppress my Dulness, (which, by the way, for the future, 
you are to call by a more pompous name, The Dunciad,) how 
much that nest of hornets are my regard, will easily appear to 
you when you read the Treatise of the Bathos. 

At all adventures, yours and my name shall stand linked 
as friends to posterity, both in verse and prose; and as Tully 
calls it, in consuetudine Studiorum; would to God, our 
persons could but as well, and as surely, be inseparable. I 
find my other ties dropping from me ; some worn off, some 
torn off, some relaxing daily. My greatest, both by duty, 
gratitude, and humanity, Time is shaking every moment, and 
it now hangs but by a thread ! I am many years the older 
for living so much with one so old; much the more helpless, 
for having been so long helped and tended by her ; much the 
more considerate and tender, for a daily commerce with one 

G 2 



156 POPE TO SWIFT. 

who required me justly to be both to her; and consequently 

the more melancholy and thoughtful, and the less fit for 

others, who want only in a companion or a friend, to be 

amused or entertained. My constitution, too, has had its 

share of decay, as well as my spirits; and I am as much in 

the decline at forty, as you at sixty. I believe we should be 

fit to live together, could I get a little more health, which 

might make me not quite insupportable ; your deafness 

would agree with my dulness ; you would not want me to 

speak when you could not hear. But God forbid you 

should be as destitute of the social comforts of life, as I must 

when I lose my mother ; or that ever you should lose your 

more useful acquaintance so utterly, as to turn your thoughts 

to such a broken reed as I am, who could so ill supply your 

wants! I am extremely troubled at the return of your deafness; 

you cannot be too particular in the accounts of your health 

to me ; everything you do or say in this kind, obliges me, nay, 

delights me, to see the justice you do me, in thinking me 

concerned in all your concerns ; so that though the pleasantest 

thing you can tell me be that you are better or easier ; next 

to that it pleases me, that you make me the person you would 

complain to. As the obtaining the love of valuable men is 

the happiest end I know of in this life, so the next felicity is 

to get rid of fools and scoundrels ; which I can't but own to 

you, was one part of my design in falling upon these Authors, 

whose incapacity is not greater than their insincerity, and of 

whom I have always found, (if I may quote myself,) 

That each bad Author is as bad a Friend. 

This poem will rid me of these insects, — 

Cedite, Romani Scriptores, cedite, Graii; 
Nescio quid majus nascitur Made. 

I mean than my Iliad; and I call it Nescio quid, which is a 
degree of modesty ; but however, if it silence those fellows, 
it must be something greater than any Iliad in Christendom. 

Adieu. 



LORD BOLINGBROKE TO SWIFT. 157 



LETTER XXXVII. 

Lord Bolingbroke to Sic if t. — The Tranquillity of a 
Philosopher; ivith a P.S. by Pope respecting his 
Mother. 

I have delayed several posts answering your letter of 
January last, in hopes of being able to speak to you about a 
project which concerns us both, but me the most, since the 
success of it would bring us together. It has been a good 
while in my head, and at my heart ; if it can be set a-going,, 
you shall hear more of it. I was ill in the beginning of 
winter for near a week, but in no danger either from the 
nature of my distemper, or from the attendance of three 
physicians. Since that bilious intermitting fever, I have had, 
as I had before, better health than the regard I have paid to 
health deserves* We are both in the decline of life, my dear 
Dean, and have been some years going down the hill ; let us 
make the passage as smooth as we can. Let us fence against the 
physical evil by care, and the use of those means which experi- 
ence must have pointed out to us : let us fence against moral 
evil by philosophy. I renounce the alternative you propose. 
But we may, nay, (if we will follow nature, and do not work 
up imagination against her plainest dictates,) we shall of 
course grow every year more indifferent to life, and to the 
affairs and interests of a system out of which we are soon to 
go. This is much better than stupidity. The decay of 
passion strengthens philosophy ; for passion may decay, and 
stupidity not succeed. Passions, (says Pope, our divine, as 
you will see one time or other,) are the gales of life ; let us 
not complain that they do not blow a storm. What hurt 
does age do us, in subduing what we toil to subdue all our 
lives ? It is now six in the morning ; I recall the time, (and 
am glad it is over,) when about this hour I used to be going 



158 LORD BOLINGBROKE 

to bed surfeited with pleasure, or jaded with business : my 
head often full of schemes, and my heart as often full of 
anxiety. Is it a misfortune, think you, that I rise at this 
hour, refreshed, serene, and calm ? that the past, and even the 
present affairs of life stand like objects at a distance from me, 
where I can keep off the disagreeable so as not to be strongly 
affected by them, and from whence I can draw the others 
nearer to me ? Passions in their force would bring all these, 
nay, even future contingencies, about my ears at once, and 
reason would but ill defend me in the scuffle. I leave Pope 
to speak for myself; but I must tell you how much my wife 
is obliged to you. She says, she would find strength enough 
to nurse you, if you were here ; and yet, God knows, she is 
extremely weak : the slow fever works under, and mines the 
constitution ; we keep it off sometimes, but still it returns, 
and makes new breaches before nature can repair the old 
ones. I am not ashamed to say to you, that I admire her 
more every hour of my life : death is not to her the King of 
Terrors; she beholds him without the least. When she 
suffers much, she wishes for him as a deliverer from pain; 
when life is tolerable, she looks on him with dislike, because 
he is to separate her from those friends to whom she is more 
attached than to life itself. You shall not stay for my next 
so long as you have for this letter ; and in every one Pope 
shall write something much better than the scraps of old 
philosophers, which were the presents, Munuscula, that 
stoical fop Seneca used to send in every epistle to his friend 
Lucilius. 

P.S. — My lord has spoken justly of his lady ; why not I 
of my mother ? Yesterday was her birth-day, now entering 
on the ninety-first year of her age; her memory much 
diminished, but her senses very little hurt, her sight and 
hearing good; she sleeps not ill, eats moderately, drinks 
water, says her prayers ; this is all she does. I have reason 



TO SWIFT. ]59 

to thank God for her continuing so long a very good and 
tender parent, and for allowing me to exercise for some years 
those cares which are now as necessary to her as hers have 
been to me. An object of this sort daily before one's eyes, 
very much softens the mind, but perhaps may hinder it from 
the willingness of contracting other ties of the like domestic 
nature, when one finds how painful it is, even to enjoy the 
tender pleasures. I have formerly made some strong efforts 
to get and to deserve a friend : perhaps it were wiser never to 
attempt it, but live extempore, and look upon the world only 
as a place to pass through : just pay your hosts their dues, 
disperse a little charity, and hurry on. Yet I am just now 
writing (or rather planning) a book*, to make mankind look 
upon this life with comfort and pleasure, and put morality in 
good humour. And just now too I am going to see one I 
love very tenderly; and to-morrow to entertain several civil 
people, whom if we call friends, it is by the courtesy of 
England. Sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras. While we do live, 
we must make the best of life. 

Cantantes licet usque (minus via Iwdet) eamus: 
as the shepherd said in Yirgil, when the road was long and 
heavy. I am yours. 



LETTER XXXVIII. 



The Same to the Same. — A beautiful Picture oj 
Conte?nplative Life. 
I am not so lazy as Pope, and therefore you must not 
expect from me the same indulgence to laziness ; in defending 
his own cause, he pleads yours, and becomes your advocate, 
while he appeals to you as his judge: you will do the same 
on your part; and I, and the rest of your common friends, 
shall have great justice to expect from two such righteous 
tribunals. You remember perfectly the two ale-house- 

* The Essay on Man. 



160 LORD BOLINGBROKE 

keepers in Holland, who were at the same time burgomasters 
of the town, and taxed one another's bills alternately. I 
declare beforehand I will not stand to the award ; my title 
to your friendship is good, and wants neither deeds nor 
writings to confirm it : but annual acknowledgments at least 
are necessary to preserve it : and I begin to suspect, by your 
defrauding me of them, that you hope in time to dispute it, 
and to urge prescription against me. I would not say one 
word to you about myself, (since it is a subject on which you 
appear to have no curiosity,) was it not to try how far the 
contrast between Pope's fortune and manner of life and mine, 
may be carried. 

I have been, then, infinitely more uniform, and less dissi- 
pated than when you knew me, and cared for me. A great 
many misfortunes, (for so they are called, though sometimes 
very improperly,) and a retirement from the world, have 
made that just and nice discrimination between my acquaint- 
ance and my friends, which we have seldom sagacity enough 
to make for ourselves : those insects of various hues, which 
used to hum and buz about me, while I stood in the sunshine, 
have disappeared since I lived in the shade. No man comes 
to a Hermitage, but for the sake of the Hermit ; a few philo- 
sophical friends come often to mine, and they are such as you 
would be glad to live with, if a dull climate and duller 
company have not altered you extremely from what you were 
nine years ago. 

The hoarse voice of party was never heard in this quiet 
place ; gazettes and pamphlets are banished from it ; and if 
the lucubrations of Isaac Bickerstaff be admitted, this dis- 
tinction is owing to some strokes by which it is judged that 
this illustrious philosopher had (like the Indian Fohu, the 
Grecian Pythagoras, the Persian Zoroaster, and others his 
precursors among the Zabians, Magians, and the Egyptian 
Seers,) both his outward and his inward doctrine, and that he 
was of no side at the bottom. When I am there, I forget I 



TO SWIFT. 161 

was ever of any party myself ; nay, I am often so happily 
absorbed by the abstracted reason of things, that I am ready 
to imagine there never was any such monster as party. 
Alas ! I am soon awakened from that pleasing dream by the 
Greek and Roman historians, by Guicciardine, by Machiavel, 
and Thuanus ; for I have vowed to read no history of our 
own country till that body of it, which you promise to finish, 
appears. 

I am under no apprehension that a glut of study and 
retirement should cast me back into the hurry of the world; 
on the contrary, the single regret which I ever feel, is, that I 
fell so late into this course of life; my philosophy grows 
confirmed by habit; and if you and I meet again, I will 
extort this approbation from you : Jam non consilio bonus, 
sed more eo perauctus, ut non tantum recte facer e possim, sed 
nisi recte facere non possim. The little incivilities I have met 
with from opposite sets of people, have been so far from 
rendering me violent or sour to any, that I think myself 
obliged to them all : some have cured me of my fears, by 
showing me how impotent the malice of the world is; others 
have cured me of my hopes, by showing how precarious 
popular friendships are ; all have cured me of surprise. In 
driving me out of party, they have driven me out of cursed 
company ; and in stripping me of titles, and rank, and estate,, 
and such trinkets, which every man that will may spare, 
they have given me that which no man can be happy with- 
out. 

Reflection and habit have rendered the world so indifferent 
to me, that I am neither afflicted nor rejoiced, angry nor 
pleased, at what happens in it, any further than personal 
friendships interest me in the affairs of it ; and this principle 
extends my cares but a little way. Perfect tranquillity is 
the general tenour of my life : good digestions, serene weather, 
and some other mechanic springs, wind me above it now and 
then, but I never fall below it ; I am sometimes gay, but I 

G3 



16*2 LORD BOLINGBROKE TO SWIFT. 

am never sad. I have gained new friends, and have lost 
some old ones; my acquisitions of this kind give me a good deal 
of pleasure, because they have not been made lightly: I know 
no vows so solemn as those of friendship, and therefore a 
pretty long noviciate of acquaintance should, methinks, pre- 
cede them : my losses of this kind give me but little trouble ; 
I contributed not to them; and a friend who breaks with me 
unjustly, is not worth preserving. As soon as I leave this 
town, (which will be in a few days,) I shall fall back into 
that course of life which keeps knaves and fools at a great 
distance from me ; I have an aversion to them both; but in 
the ordinary course of life, I think I can bear the sensible knave 
better than the fool. One must, indeed, with the former be 
in some or other of the attitudes of those wooden men whom 
I have seen before a sword-cutler's shop in Germany; but even 
in these constrained postures, the witty rascal will divert me: 
and he that diverts me does me a great deal of good, and 
lays me under an obligation to him, which I am not obliged 
to pay him in another coin : the fool obliges me to be almost 
as much upon my guard as the knave, and he makes me no 
amends; he numbs me like the torpor, or he teases me like 
the fly. This is the picture of an old friend, and more like 
him than that will be which you once asked, and which he 
will send you, if you continue still to desire it. 

Adieu, dear Swift ; with all thy faults I love thee en- 
tirely; make an effort, and love me on with all mine. 



LETTER XXXIX. 
Warburton to Hurd. — A Voyage round the Park. 

Pare, was heard to declare, in the presence of an accomplished 
living writer, that the fame of Warburton rested upon the " two 
pillars of his and Johnson's commendation." This was said of an 
author, of whom Pope had affirmed, that he possessed a genius 



WARBURTON TO HTJRD. 163 

equal to his fancy, and a taste equal to his learning. But the 
polemical fervour, which broke out in the gravest disquisitions of 
Warburton, is abundantly visible in his correspondence. You see 
the flashing steel, and hear the sounding bow of the eager dispu- 
tant. His letters have been analyzed by the ingenious author of 
the Diary of a Lover of Literature. — " Hume is consigned to the 
pillory in his first curious notice of him (Lett. 6, 1749), and after- 
wards (Lett. 100, 1757), he is described as possessing a more cruel 
heart than he ever met with. Johnson's remarks on his commen- 
taries upon Shakspeare (Lett. 175), are full of insolent and malig- 
nant reflections. Priestley (Lett. 220), is that wretched fellow. 
The gloomy and malignant Jortin (Lett. 227), dies of eating his 
own heart. Evanson (235) is a convicted innovator. Walpole an 
insufferable coxcomb. Spence, a poor creature ; and dunces and 
blockheads thunder through his epistles without number." — These 
are the characteristic faults of the writer, for which the fertility 
of his invention, the affluence of his erudition, and the purity of 
his intentions, make ample amends. His letters have been justly 
characterized " as replete with bold and original thoughts, acute 
criticism, profound reflections, daring paradoxes, boastful exulta- 
tions, ingenious and frank avowals, fervent demonstrations of 
friendly regard, strains of manly and indignant eloquence, strokes 
of true and genuine humour, coarse and contemptuous invectives 
on his enemies." The following humorous account of a voyage 
round the Park, is pronounced a fine letter by Hurd, who acknow- 
ledges to have made use of it in the Dialogues on Foreign Travel. 



I agree with you that our friend is a little whimsical, as 
a philosopher or a poet, in his project of improving himself 
in men or manners; though as a fine gentleman, extremely 
fashionable in his scheme. But, as I dare say this is a cha- 
racter he is above, tell him I would recommend him now and 
then, with me, a voyage round the Park, of ten times more 
ease, and ten thousand times more profit than makino- the 
grand tour; whether he chooses to consider it in a philoso- 
phico-poetical, or in an ecclesiastico-political light. Let us 
suppose his mind bent on improvements in poetry. What 
can afford nobler hints for pastoral, than the cows and the 



164 WARBURTON 

milk-women at your entrance from Spring Gardens. As 
you advance, you have nobler subjects for Comedy and Farce, 
from one end of the Mall to the other; not to say, Satire, to 
which our worthy friend has a kind of propensity; as you 
turn to the left, you soon arrive at Rosamond's Pond, long 
consecrated to disastrous love, and elegiac poetry. The Bird- 
cage Walk, which you enter next, speaks its own influence, 
and inspires you with the gentle spirit of madrigal and 
sonnet. When we come to Duck-Island, we have a double 
chance for success in the Georgic, or didactic poetry, as the 
governor of it, Stephen Duck, can both instruct our friend in 
the breed of his wild-fowl, and lend him of his genius to sing 
of their generations. But now, in finishing our tour, we 
come to a place indeed, the reed-plot of Dettingen and 
Fontenoy, the place of trumpets and kettle-drums, of horse 
and foot guards, the Parade. The place of heroes and demi- 
gods, the eternal source of the Greek poetry, from whence 
springs that acme of human things, an epic poem; to which 
our friend has consecrated all his happier hours. But suppose 
his visions for the bays be now changed for the brighter 
visions of the mitre, here still must be his circle; which on 
one side presents him with those august lovers of St. James's, 
which, though neither seemly nor sublime, yet ornament that 
place where the balances are preserved, which weigh out 
liberty and property to the nations all abroad ; and on the 
other, with that sacred, venerable dome of St. Peter, which, 
though its head rises and remains in the clouds, yet carries 
in its bowels the very flower and quintessence of Ecclesiastial 
Policy. 

This is enough for any one who only wants to study them 
for his use. But if our aspiring friend would go higher, and 
study human nature, in and for itself, he must take a much 
larger tour than that of Europe. He must first go, and 
catch her undressed, nay, quite naked, in North America and 
at the Cape of Good Hope. He may then examine how she 



TO HURD. 165 

appears crampt, contracted, and buttoned close up in the 
straight tunic of law and custom, as in China and Japan, 
or spread out and enlarged above her common size, in the 
long and flowing robe of enthusiasm, amongst the Arabs and 
Saracens; or lastly, as she flutters in the old rags of worn-out 
policy and civil government, and almost ready to run back 
to the deserts, as on the Mediterranean coast of Africa. 
These, tell him, are the grand scenes for the true philosopher, 
the citizen of the world to contemplate. The tour of Europe 
is like the entertainment that Plutarch speaks of, which 
Pompey's host of Epirus gave him. There were many dishes, 
and they had a seeming variety; but when he came to 
examine them narrowly, he found them all made out of one 
hog, and indeed nothing but pork differently disguised. 

This is enough for our friend. But to you who have, as 
Mr. Locke expresses it, " large, sound, and round-about sense," 
I have something more to say. Though, indeed, I perfectly 
agree with you, that a scholar by profession, who knows how 
to employ his time in his study, for the benefit of mankind, 
would be more than fantastical, he would be mad, to go 
rambling round Europe, though his fortune would permit 
him. For, to travel with profit, must be when his faculties 
are at their height, his studies matured, yet all his reading- 
fresh in his head. But to waste a considerable space of time, 
at such a period of life, is more than suicide; yet, for all this, 
the knowledge of human nature, (the only knowledge, in the 
largest sense of it, worth a wise man's concern or care,) can 
never be well acquired without seeing it under all its dis- 
guises and distortions, arising from absurd governments and 
monstrous religions, in every quarter of the globe. Therefore, 
I think a collection of the best voyagers no despicable part of 
a philosopher's library. Perhaps there will be found more 
dross in this sort of literature, even when selected most care- 
fully, than in any other. But no matter for that. Such a 
collection will contain a great and solid treasury. The report 



166 WARBURTON TO KURD. 

you speak of is partly false, with a mixture of truth; and is 
a thing that touches me so little, that I never mentioned it to 
any of my friends, who did not chance to ask about it. I 
have no secrets that I would have such to you. I would 
have it so to others, merely because it is an impertinent 
thing, that concerns nobody; and its being in common report, 
which nobody gives credit to, covers the secret the better, 
instead of divulging it. The simple fact is only this, that 
not long since, the D. N. sent word by a noble person, to 
Mr. Allen, that he had a purpose of asking the K. for the 
Deanery of Bristol for me, if it should become vacant w T hile 
he is in credit, as a thing which, he supposed, would not be 
unacceptable to me, on account of its neighbourhood to this 
place. And now, my dear friend, you have the whole secret, 
and a very foolish one it is. If it comes, as Falstaff says of 
honour, it comes unlookedfor, and there's an end. But he had 
a good chance, because he did not deserve what he was so 
indifferent about. What my chance is by this scale, I leave 
to be adjusted between my friends and enemies. 

It gives me, my dear friend, a sincere pleasure to hear 
that your health seems to be re-established; and that the 
good couple tied together for life, the mind and body, are at 
peace with one another. As for spirits, it is like love in 
marriage, it will come after. Should we have ^the pleasure 
of seeing you at Christmas, you would likely meet the good 
company you met last Christmas, I mean Mr. Yorke's. You 
know, I hope, the true esteem Mr. Allen has for you, and 
the sincere pleasure your company gives him. 



167 



LETTER XL.. 

Lady Montagu to her Sister. — A Visit to the Viziers 
Harem; The beautiful Fatima. 

In 1716, Lady Montagu accompanied her husband, who had 
been appointed ambassador to the Porte, in his journey to Constan- 
tinople ; and, during her residence, communicated to her friends 
those graphic sketches of society and maimers, which have con- 
ferred so lasting a celebrity upon her correspondence. 



Adrianople, April 18, 1717- 
I wrote to you, dear sister, and to all my other English 
correspondents, by the last ship, and only heaven can tell 
when I shall have another opportunity of sending to you; 
but I cannot forbear to write again, though, perhaps, my 
letter may lie upon my hands these two months. To confess 
the truth, my head is so full of my entertainment yesterday, 
that it is absolutely necessary, for my own repose, to give it 
some vent. Without further preface I will begin my story. 

I was invited to dine with the grand vizier's lady, and it 
was with a great deal of pleasure I prepared myself for an 
entertainment, which was never before given to any Chris- 
tian. I thought I should very little satisfy her curiosity 
(which I did not doubt was a considerable motive to the 
invitation) by going in a dress she was used to see, and 
therefore dressed myself in the court habit of Vienna, which 
is much more magnificent than ours. However, I chose to 
go incognito^ to avoid any disputes about ceremony, and went 
in a Turkish coach, only attended by my woman that held 
up my train, and the Greek lady who was my interpretess. 
I was met at the court-door by the black eunuch, who helped 
me out of the coach with great respect, and conducted me 
through several rooms, where her she-slaves, finely dressed, 



168 LADY MARY MONTAGU 

were ranged on each side. In the innermost I found the 
lady sitting on her sofa, in a sable vest. She advanced to 
meet me, and presented me half a dozen of her friends with 
great civility. She seemed a very good-looking woman, near 
fifty years old. I was surprised to observe so little magni- 
ficence in her house, the furniture being all very moderate, and 
except the habits and number of her slaves, nothing about her 
appeared expensive. She guessed at my thoughts, and told 
me she was no longer at an age to spend either her time or 
money in superfluities; that her whole expense was in 
charity, and her whole employment, praying to God. There 
was no affectation in this speech; both she and her husband 
are entirely given up to devotion. He never looks upon any 
other woman; and what is much more extraordinary, touches 
no bribes, notwithstanding the example of all his predecessors. 
He is so scrupulous on this point, he would not accept Mr. 
Wortley's present, till he had been assured over and over 
that it was a settled perquisite of his place at the entrance of 
every ambassador. 

She entertained me with all kind civility till dinner came 
in, which was served one dish at a time to a vast number, 
all finely dressed after their manner, which I do not think so 
bad as you have perhaps heard it represented. I am a very 
good judge of their eating, having lived three weeks in the 
house of an Effendi at Belgrade, who gave us very magnifi- 
cent dinners dressed by his own cooks. The first week they 
pleased me extremely; but, I own, I then began to grow 
weary of their table, and desired our own cook might add a 
dish or two after our own manner. But I attribute this to 
custom, and am very much inclined to believe that an Indian, 
who had never tasted of either, would prefer their cookery to 
ours. Their sauces are very high, all the roast very much 
done; they use a great deal of very rich spice; the soup is 
served for the last dish; and they have at least as great a 
variety of ragouts as we have. I was very sorry I could not 



TO HER SISTER. 169 

eat of as many as the good lady would have had me, who 
was very earnest in serving me of every thing. 

The treat concluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a 
high mark of respect; two slaves, kneeling, censed my hair, 
clothes, and handkerchief. After this ceremony, she com- 
manded her slaves to play and dance, which they did with 
their guitars in their hands, and she excused to me their want 
of skill, saying, she took no care to accomplish them in that art. 
I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. I was 
conducted back in the same manner I entered, and would 
have gone straight to my own house; but the Greek lady 
with me, earnestly solicited me to visit the Kiyaya's lady, 
saying he was the second officer in the empire, and ought, 
indeed, to be looked upon as the first, the grand vizier having 
only the name, while he exercised the authority. I had 
found so little diversion in the vizier s harem, that I had no 
mind to go into another. But her importunity prevailed 
with me, and I am extremely glad I was so complaisant. 

All things here were with quite another air than the grand 
viziers; and the very house confessed the difference between 
an old devotee and a young beauty. It was nicely clean and 
magnificent. I was met at the door by two black eunuchs, 
who led me through a long gallery, between two ranks of beau- 
tiful young girls, with their hair finely plaited, almost hanging 
to their feet, all dressed in fine light damasks, brocaded with 
silver. I was sorry that decency did not permit me to stop 
to consider them nearer. But that thought was lost upon my 
entrance into a large room, or rather pavilion, built round 
with gilded sashes, which were most of them thrown up, and 
the trees planted near them gave an agreeable shade, which 
hindered the sun from being troublesome. The jessamines 
and honeysuckles, that twisted round their trunks, shed a 
soft perfume, increased by a white marble fountain playing 
sweet water in the lower part of the room, which fell into 
three or four basins with a pleasing sound. The roof was 



170 LADY MARY MONTAGU 

painted with all sorts of flowers, falling out of gilded baskets, 
that seemed tumbling down. On a sofa, raised three steps, 
and covered with fine Persian carpets, sat the kiyaya's lady, 
leaning on cushions of white satin, embroidered ; and at her 
feet sat two young girls, about twelve years old, lovely as 
angels, dressed perfectly rich, and almost covered with jewels. 
But they were hardly seen near the fair Fatima y (for that is 
her name,) so much her beauty effaced every thing I have 
seen, nay, all that has been called lovely, either in England 
or Germany. I must own, that I never saw anything so 
gloriously beautiful, nor can I recollect a face that would have 
been taken notice of near hers. She stood up to receive me, 
saluting me after their fashion, putting her hand to her heart 
with a sweetness full of majesty, that no court-breeding could 
ever give. She ordered cushions to be given me, and took 
care to place me in the corner, which is the place of honour. 
I confess, though the Greek lady had before given me a great 
opinion of her beauty, I was so struck with admiration that I 
could not for some time speak to her, being wholly taken up 
in gazing. That surprising harmony of features ! that charm- 
ing result of the whole ! that exact proportion of body ! that 
lovely bloom of complexion, unsullied by art ! the unutterable 
enchantment of her smile! — But her eyes ! — large and black, 
with all the soft languishment of the blue ! — every turn of her 
face discovering some new grace. 

After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by nicely 
examining her face, to find out some imperfection, without any 
fruit of my search, but my being clearly convinced of the error of 
that vulgar notion, that a face exactly proportioned, and per- 
fectly beautiful, would not be agreeable ; nature having done 
for her, w T ith more success, what Apelles is said to have 
essayed, by a collection of the most exact features, to form a 
perfect face. Add to all this, a behaviour so full of grace and 
sweetness, such easy motions, with an air so majestic, yet free 
from stiffness or affectation, that I am persuaded, could she be 



TO HER SISTER. 171 

suddenly transported upon the most polite throne of Europe, 
nobody would think her other than born and bred to be a 
queen, though educated in a country we call barbarous. To 
say all in a word, our most celebrated English beauties would 
vanish before her. 

She was dressed in a caftan of gold brocade, flowered with 
silver, very well fitted to her shape, and showing to admira- 
tion the beauty of her bosom, only shaded by the thin gauze 
of her vest. Her drawers were pale pink, her waistcoat green 
and silver, her slippers white satin, finely embroidered ; her 
lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, and her broad 
girdle set round with diamonds ; upon her head a rich Turk- 
ish handkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair 
hanging a great length in various tresses, and on one side of 
her head some bodkins of jewels. I am afraid you will 
accuse me of extravagance in this description. I think I 
have read somewhere, that women always speak in rapture 
when they speak of beauty, and I cannot imagine why they 
should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it a virtue, 
to be able to admire without any mixture of desire or envy*. 
The gravest writers have spoken with great warmth of some 
celebrated pictures and statues. The workmanship of heaven 
certainly excels all our weak imitations, and, I think, has a 
much better claim to our praise. For my part, I am not 
ashamed to own, that I took more pleasure in looking on the 
beauteous Fatima than the finest piece of sculpture could have 
given me. 

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, 
though she appeared too young to be their mother. Her fair 
maids were ranged below the sofa, to the number of twenty, 
and put me in mind of the pictures of the ancient nymphs. 

* Later in life, Lady Mary's enthusiasm seems to have cooled. The fol- 
lowing passage occurs in a letter to Mrs. Calthorpe : — " To say truth, I have 
never had any great esteem for the generality of the fair sex, and my only 
consolation for being of that gender has been, the assurance it gave me of 
never being married to any one among them." 



172 LADY MARY MONTAGU TO HER SISTER. 

I did not think all nature could have furnished such a scene 
of beauty. She made them a sign to play and dance. Four of 
them immediately began to play some soft airs on instruments 
between a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied with 
their voices, while the others danced by turns. I suppose 
you may have read that the Turks have no music but what 
is shocking to the ears ; but this account is from those who 
never heard any but what is played in the streets, and is just 
as reasonable as if a foreigner should take his idea of English 
music from the bladder and string, or the marrow-bones and 
cleavers. I can assure you that the music is extremely pathetic; 
it is true I am inclined to prefer the Italian, but perhaps I 
am partial. I am acquainted with a Greek lady, who sings 
better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled in both, 
who gives the preference to the Turkish. It is certain, they 
have very fine natural voices; these were very agreeable. 
"When the dance was over, four fair slaves came into the 
room with silver censers in their hands, and perfumed the air 
with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents. After this they 
served the coffee, upon their knees, in the finest Japan china, 
with soucoups of silver-gilt. The lovely Fatima entertained 
me in the most polite, agreeable manner, calling me often 
Gu.zel Sultanum, or the Beautiful Sultana, and desiring my 
friendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that 
she could not entertain me in my own language. When I 
took my leave, two maids brought in a fine silver basket of 
embroidered handkerchiefs ; she begged I would wear the 
richest for her sake, and gave the others to my women and 
interpretess. I retired through the same ceremonies as before, 
and could not help thinking I had been some time in 
Mahomet's paradise, so much was I charmed with what I 
had seen. I know not how the relation of it appears to you. 
I wish it may give you part of my pleasure ; for I would 
have my dear sister share in all the diversions of 

Your, &c. 



173 



LETTER XLI. 

Lord Hervey to Lady Mary Worthy Montagu. — 
Company at Bath, 

Lord John Hervey, says Mr. Dallaway, in his Memoir of 
Lady Montagu, was Vice-Chamberlain and Privy Seal to George II., 
and well known by his duel with Mr. Pulteney, his writings, and 
his eloquence in the senate. After he became obnoxious to Pope, 
both as a politician and a poet, he was satirized under the name of 
" Sporus*." He was a Mend of Lady Mary, who consigned him to 
perpetual remembrance, in the pleasant saying, " that this world 
consisted of men, women, and Herveys." -He was witty and effe- 
minate, and, when asked to take some beef at dinner, is said to 
have replied, "Beef? oh, no! — Faugh! don't you know I never 
eat beef, nor horse, nor any of those things V 



Bath, October 8, 1728. 
I had too much pleasure in receiving your ladyship's 
commands to have any merit in obeying them, and should be 
very insincere if I pretended that my inclination to converse 
with you would ever be a second motive to my doing it. I 
came to this place yesterday, from which you may imagine 
I am not yet sufficiently qualified to execute the commission 
you gave me, which was, to send you a list of the sojourners 
and inmates of this place; but there is so universal an affinity 
and resemblance among these individuals, that a small para- 
graph will serve amply to illustrate what you have to depend 
upon. The Duchess of Marlborough, Congreve, and Lady 
Rich, are the only people whose names I ever heard, or who, 
I believe, have any names belonging to them ; the rest are a 
swarm of wretched beings, some with half their limbs, some 
with none, the ingredients of Pandora's box personifie, who 
stalk about, half living remembrancers of mortality, and, by 

* Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel, 
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? 

Prologue to the Satires. 



174 LORD HERVEY TO LADY MARY MONTAGU. 

calling themselves human, ridicule the species more than 
Swift's Yhahoues. I do not meet a creature without saying 

to myself, as Lady did of her femme de chambre, «2&. 

garde* cet animal, considered cet neant, voild une belle ame pour 
tore immortelle." This is giving you little encouragement to 
venture among us; but the sincerity with which I have 
delineated this sketch of our coterie at Bath, will at least 
persuade you, I hope, madam, to think, I can give up my 
interest to my health, and induce you to believe I never 
sham the latter, when I assure you, in the strongest terms, I 
am with the greatest warmth and esteem, 

Madam, 
Your Ladyship's most obedient, humble servant, 

IIervey. 

LETTER XLII. 

Melmoth to a Friend.— Meditations in a Garden upon 
a Spring Morning. 

William Melmoth, son of the author of one of the most popular 
religious works to which the eighteenth century gave birth was 
born in 1710; and about 1742 published some original letters 
under the name of Fitzosborne, which are remarkable for the 
aboured elegance of their style, the justness of their sentiments, and 
the accuracy of their criticism. His translation of Pliny's Letters 
in 1747, obtained for him the reputation of a refined and accom- 
plished scholar. He died, at a very advanced age, in 1799. 

May 29, 1718. 

I esteem your letters in the number of my most valuable 
possessions, and preserve them as so many prophetical leaves 
upon which the state of our distracted nation is inscribed. 
But in exchange for the maxims of a patriot, I can only send 
you the reveries of a recluse, and give you the stones of the 
brook for the gold of Ophir. Never, indeed, Palemon, was 
there a commerce more unequal than that wherein you are 
contented to engage with me, and I could scarce answer it to 



MELMOTH TO A FRIEND. 175 

my conscience to continue a traffic where the whole benefit 
accrues singly to myself, did I not know that to confer, with- 
out the possibility of an advantage, is the most pleasing 
exercise of generosity. I will venture, then, to make use 
of a privilege which I have long enjoyed ; as I well know 
you love to mix the meditations of the philosopher with the 
reflections of the statesman, and can turn with equal relish 
from the politics of Tacitus, to the morals of Seneca. I was 
in my garden this morning somewhat earlier than usual, 
when the sun, as Milton describes him, 

With wheels yet hov'ring o'er the ocean brim, 
Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray. 

There is something in the opening of the dawn at this season 
of the year, that enlivens the mind with a sort of cheerful 
seriousness, and fills it with a certain calm rapture in the con- 
sciousness of its existence. For my own part, at least, the 
rising of the sun has the same effect on me, as it is said to 
have had on the celebrated statue of Memnon; and I never 
observe that glorious luminary breaking out upon me, that I 
do not find myself harmonized for the whole day. "While I 
was enjoying the freshness and tranquillity of this early 
season, and considering the many reasons I had to join in 
offering up that " morning incense," which the poet I just now 
mentioned, represents as particularly arising at this hour, 
u from the earth's great altar ;" I could not but esteem it as 
a principal blessing, that I was entering upon a new day with 
health and spirits. To awake with recruited vigour for the 
transactions of life, is a mercy so generally dispensed, that it 
passes, like the other ordinary bounties of Providence, with- 
out making its due impression. Yet, were one never to rise 
under these happy circumstances, without reflecting what 
numbers there are, who, (to use the language of the most 
pathetic of authors,) when they said, "my bed shall comfort 
me, my couch shall ease my complaint," were, like him, 
" full of tossings to and fro, unto the dawning of the day," 



176 MELMOTH TO A FRIEND. 

or " scared with dreams and terrified througli visions ;" were 
one to consider, I say, how many pass their nights in all the 
horrors of a disturbed imagination, or all the wakefulness of 
real pains, one could not find one's self exempt from such un- 
easy slumbers, or such terrible vigils, without double satisfac- 
tion and gratitude. There is nothing, indeed, contributes 
more to render a man contented with that draught of life 
which is poured out to himself, than thus to reflect on those 
more bitter ingredients, which are sometimes mingled in the 
cup of others. 

In pursuing the same vein of thought, I could not but 
congratulate myself, that I had no part in that turbulent 
drama, which was going to be reacted upon the great stage of 
the world, and rejoiced that it was my fortune to stand a 
distant and unengaged spectator of those several characters 
that would shortly fill the scene. This suggested to my 
remembrance a passage in the Roman tragic poet, where he 
describes the various pursuits of the busy and ambitious world, 
in very just and lively colours : — 

Ille superbos aditus regum 
Durasque fores, expers somni, 
Colit : hie nullo fine beatus 
Componit opes, gazis inhians, 
Et congesto pauper in auro est. 
Ilium populi favor attonitum, 
Fluctuque magis mobile vulgus, 
Aura tumidum tollit inani. 
Hie clamosi rabiosa fori 
Jurgia vendens improbus, iras 
Et verba locat. 

and I could not forbear saying to myself, in the language of 
the same author, 

Me mea tellus 

Lare secreto tutoque tegat ! 

Yet this circumstance, which your friend considers as so valu- 
able a privilege, has been esteemed by others as the most 



MELMOTH TO A FRIEND. 177 

severe of afflictions. The celebrated Count de Bussy Ra- 
butin has written a little treatise, wherein, after having shown 
that the greatest of men upon the stage of the world are gene- 
rally the most unhappy, he closes the account by producing 
himself as an instance of the truth of what he has been 
advancing. But can you guess, Palemon, what this terrible 
disaster was, which entitled him to a rank in the number of 
these unfortunate heroes. He had composed, it seems, cer- 
tain satirical pieces, which gave great offence to Louis XI Y. ; for 
which reason that monarch banished him from the slavery and 
dependence of a court, to live in ease and freedom at his 
country house. But the world had taken too strong posses- 
sion of his heart, to suffer him to leave even the worst part of 
it without reluctance; and, like the patriarch's wife, he looked 
back with regret upon the scene from which he was kindly 
driven, though there was nothing in the prospect but flames. 
Adieu ! v 



LETTER XLIII. 
Matthew Prior to Swift. — A Letter upon Nothing. 

Prior, who was at this period ambassador at Paris, belonged to 
a Club of sixteen, who dined every week in rotation at each others' 
houses. Of this Society, Swift was a member. They were dis- 
tinguished by the title of Brothers. 



Paris, August 16, 17-13. 
As I did not expect, my good friend Jonathan, to have 
received a letter from you at Dublin, so I am sure I did not 
intend to write one thither to you; but Mr. Rosingrave* 
thinks it may do him service, in recommending him to you. 
If so, I am very glad of it; for it can be of no other use 
imaginable : I have writ letters now above twenty-two 

* A celebrated musical performer. 



178 MATTHEW PRIOR TO SWIFT. 

years. I have taken towns, destroyed fleets, made treaties, 
and settled commerce in letters. And what of all this? why 
nothing; but that I have had some subject to write upon. 
But to write a letter, only because Mr. Rosingrave has a 
mind to carry one in his pocket; to tell you that you are 
sure of a friendship which can never do you threepence worth 
of good ; and to wish you well in England very soon, when I 
do not know when I am likely to be there myself; — all this, 
I say, is very absurd for a letter, especially when I have this 
day written a dozen, much more to the purpose. If I had seen 
your manuscript * — if I had received Dr. Parnell's poem — if I 
had any news of Lenden being taken ; — why well and good. 
But as I know no more than that the Duke of Shrewsbury 
designs for England within three weeks; that I must stay 
here till somebody else comes, and then brings me necessarily 
to say, good Mr. Dean, that I am like the fellow in the 
Rehearsal, who did not know if he was to be merry or serious, 
or in what way or mood to act his part. One thing only I 
am assured of, that I love you very well ; and most sincerely 
and faithfully. Dear sir, your servant and brother, 

M. Prior. 

Lord and Lady Shrewsbury give their service to you. 
Vanhomrigh t has run terribly in debt, and, being in durance, 
has sent to his brother upon pecuniary concerns. Adieu 
once more. 

What we are doing, or what is to become of us, I know 

not. 

Prudens futuri temporis exitum 
Caliginosa nocte premit Deus, 
Ridetque. 

This is all the Latin and writing I can at present spare you. 
Pray give my service to your Chancellor J, and be much 
acquainted with Judge Nutley, and love him very well for 

* Of the History of the Peace of Utrecht. 
t A brother of the celebrated Vanessa. J Sir Constantine Phipps. 



GRAY TO WALPOLE. 179 

my sake. Adieu. — Once more, find out my cousin Penny- 
father and Nutley (if he is not too grave for you) ; and, 
according to the laudable custom of your country, drink this 
louis out, for a token of my generosity, and your sobriety. 
And now, I think, I have furnished out a very pretty letter. 



LETTER XLIV. 



Gray to Walpole. — How he spends his own time in 
the Country; Southern, the Dramatic Poet. 

Southern died at the age of eighty-six, nine years after this 
letter was written.' Gray, we are told by Mason, admired his 
pathetic powers, but objected to that union of them with farce, 
which produced Tragi-comedy. 



I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you 
all the trouble I would have done. The description of a 
road, which your coach-wheels have so often honoured, it 
would be needless to give you; suffice it, I arrived safe**- at 
my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs 
take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at 
this present writing; and though the gout forbids his gallop- 
ing after them in the field, yet he continues still to regale his 
ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He 
holds me mightily cheap, I perceive, for walking when I 
should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort 
amidst all this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, 
through a green lane, a forest, (the vulgar call it a common,) 
all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing 
in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and pre- 
cipices ; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above 

* At Burah.am in Buckinghamshire. 

H 2 



180 GRAY TO WALPOLE. 

the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover 
Cliff; but just such hills as people who love their necks as well 
as I do, may venture to climb ; and crags that give the eye 
as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous : Both vale 
and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other 
very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, 
are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds, — 

And, as they bow their hoary tops, relate, 

In murmuring sounds, the dark decrees of fate ; 

While visions, as poetic eyes avow, 

Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough. 

At the foot of one of these squats, me I* (il penseroso,) 
and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The 
timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me like 
Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I think he did 
not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this 
situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is, 
talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you 
answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to 
myself, but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. 
Southern at a gentleman's house a little way off, who often 
comes to see us; he is now seventy-seven years oldf, and 
has almost wholly lost his memory; but is as agreeable as an 
old man can be, at least I persuade myself so when I look at 
him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. j I shall be in town 
Lin about three weeks. Adieu. 
. September, 1737. 

"* The same ludicrous expression is met with in Foote's play of The 
Knights, p. 27, from the mouth of Sir Penurious Trifle, — "And what does 
me I, but take a trip to a coffee-house in St. Martin's-Lane," &c. See also 
Don Quixote by Smollett, vol. iv. p. 30,?and Cibber's Lady's Stake, vol, ii. 
Act 1, p. 209. Mitford. 



GRAY TO WHARTON. 181 



LETTER XLV. 

Gray to Wharton. — Account of the Trial of Lords 
Kilmarnock, Cromartie, and Balmerino. 

The reader is recommended to compare with the vivid painting 
of Gray, the account given of these famous trials by Horace Wal- 
pole, in a letter to H. Mann, August 1, 1746. In the Gentleman's 
Magazine, appeared an account of Lord Lo vat's execution, bearing 
in Mr. Croker's opinion, strong internal evidence of having been 
written by Johnson, to whom Mr. Mitford, without sufficient 
authority, has attributed the severe verses upon Lord Lovat, which 
were published in the same number. Boswell, indeed, had heard 
him repeat them with great energy. They have the antithesis, 
without the finish of his style. The notes marked by the letter 
M. are copied from Mr. Mitford's new edition of the Works of 
Gray. 



My dear Wharton, 

I am just returned hither from town, where I have 
past better than a fortnight, (including an excursion that I 
made to Hampton- Court, Richmond, Greenwich, and other 
places), and am happily met by a letter from you, one from 
Tuthill, and another from Trollope. As I only run over Dr. 
Andrew's answers hastily in a coffee-house, all I could judge 
was, that they seemed very unfavourable on the whole to our 
cause, and threw every thing into the hands of a visitor, for 
which reason I thought they might have been concealed, till 
the Attorney-General's opinion arrived, which will perhaps 
raise the spirits of such as the other may have damped a little, 
or leave room at least to doubt, whether the matter be so 
clear on the master's side as Andrew would have it. You 
cant suppose that I was in the least uneasy about Mr. Brown's 
fortitude, who wants nothing but a foot in height and his own 
hair, to make him a little old Roman : with two dozen such 
I should not hesitate to face an army of heads, though they 



182 



GRAY 



were all as tall as Dr. Adams. I only wish every body may 
continue in as good a disposition as they were ; and imagine, 
if possible, Roger* will be fool enough to keep them so. I 
saw Trollope for about an hour in London ; and imagining he 
could not be left in the dark as to your consultations, I 
mentioned, that I had cast an eye over Andrew's papers, and 
that it was not so favourable as we hoped. He spoke how- 
ever with horror of going to law ; with great passion of the 
master; and with great pleasure of himself for quitting a 
place, where he had not found a minute's ease in, I know not 
how long: yet I perceive his thoughts run on nothing else; 
he trembled while he spoke ; he writes to me here on the 
same subject; and after abusing Roger, he adds, Whartoni 
rubro hcec subscribe libello. 

My evenings have been chiefly spent at Ranelagh and 
Yauxhall ; several of my mornings, or rather noons, in Arling- 
ton-Street f; and the rest at the trial of the Lords. The first 
day I was not there, and only saw the Lord High Steward's 
parade in going ; the second and third * 
Peers were all in their robes * * * * by their 
wearing bag- wigs and hats, instead of coronets. The Lord 
High Steward was the least part of the show, as he wore 
only his baron's robe, and was always asking the heralds 
what he should do next, and bowing or smiling about 
to his acquaintance. As to his speech, you see it ; people 
hold it very cheap, though several incorrectnesses have been 
altered in the printed copy. Kilmarnock J spoke in mitiga- 
tion of his crime near half an hour, with a decent courage, 
and in a strong, but pathetic voice. His figure would pre- 
judice people in his favour, being tall and genteel; he is 
upwards of forty, but to the eye not above thirty-five years 

* Dr. Roger Long, master of Pembroke College, Cambridge. 
t At Mr. Walpole's. 

$ William Boyd, fourth Earl of Kilmarnock in Scotland, beheaded on 
Tower-hill, August 18, 1746. 

" Pitied by gentle minds, Kilmarnock died !" — Johnson. M. 



TO WHARTON. 183 

of age. What he said appears to less advantage when read. 
Cromartie*, (who is about the same age, a man of lower 
stature, but much like a gentleman,) was sinking into the 
earth with grief and dejection ; with eyes cast down, and a 
voice so low, that no one heard a syllable that did not sit 
close to the bar, he made a short speech to raise compassion. 
It is now I see printed ; and is reckoned extremely fine. I 
believe you will think it touching, and well expressed : if 
there be any meanness in it, it is lost in that sorrow he gives 
us for so numerous and helpless a family. Lady Cromartie f , 
(who is said to have drawn her husband into these circum- 
stances,) was at Leicester House on Wednesday, with four 
of her children. The Princess saw her, and made no other 
answer than by bringing in her own children and placing 
them by her ; which (if true) is one of the prettiest things I 
ever heard. She was also at the Duke's, who refused to 
admit her ; but she waited till he came to his coach, and 
threw herself at his knees, while her children hung upon him, 
till he promised her all his interest could do ; and before, on 
several occasions, he had been heard to speak very mildly 
of Cromartie, and very severely of Kilmarnock ; so if any be 
spared, it will probably be the former, though he had a 
pension of 6001. a-year from the government, and the order 
for giving quarter to no Englishman was found in his pocket. 
As to Balmerino, he never had any hopes from the beginning. 
He is an old soldier-like man, of a vulgar manner and aspect, 
speaks the broadest Scotch, and shows an intrepidity, that 
some ascribe to real courage, and some to brandy. You 
have heard perhaps, that the first day, (while the Peers were 
adjourned to consider of his plea, and he left alone for an 

* George Mackenzie, third Earl of Cromartie. 

t Lady Cromartie was Isabel, daughter of Sir William Gordon, of Inver- 
gordon, Bart. " Lady Cromartie went down incog, to Woolwich, to see her 
son pass by, without the power of speaking to him. I never heard a more 
melancholy instance of affection." — See Walpole's Letters to Mann, vol. ii. 
p. 156. M. 



184 



hour and a half in the bar), he diverted himself with the axe* 
that stood by him, played with its tassels, and tried the edge 
with his finger; and some lord, as he passed by him, savin* 
he was surprised to hear him alledge any thing so frivolous" 
and that could not possibly do him the least service; he 
answered, "that as there were so many ladies present, he 
thought it would be uncivil to give them no amusement." 
The Duke of Argyle telling him how sorry and how 
astonished he was to see him engaged in such a cause; « My 
Lord," (says he) "for the two kings and their rights, I cared 
not a farthing which prevailed; but I was starving; and by 
God, if Mahomet had set up his standard in the Highlands, I 
had been a good Mussulman for bread, and stuck close to the 
party, for I must eat." The Solicitor-General came up to 
speak to him too, and he turns about to old Williamson. 
" Who is that lawyer that talks to me ?" " My Lord it is 
Mr. Murray." « Ha! Mr. Murray, my good friend," (says he. 
and shook him by the hand), « and how does your good 
mother ? oh ! she was of admirable service to us; we should 
have done nothing without her in Perthshire. He recom- 
mends (he says) his Peggy f ('tis uncertain * * * 
the favour of the government, for she has * * * 

I have been diverted with an account of Lord LovatJ in 
his confinement at Edinburgh. There was a Captain Mag- 

i^t^ p - i6i - 3; see ais ° his *-*• » g - 

t Margaret, Lady Balmerino, daughter of Captain Chalmers. 

1747 i°u r ' L0n ? L ° Vat ' beheaded °» Tower-hill, the 9th of April, 

.747. Ihus mentioned m one ofWalpoles Letters, April 16th, 1747 
You have heard that old Lovat's Tragedy is over. ... I must t ' ell you 
an excessive good thing of George Selwyn. Some women were sco ding 
him for going to see the execution, and asked him how he could be such I 

i"m\rei°h s r the , head c rr a ww^«u**~£££ 

I am sure I have made amends, for I went to see it sewed on again." When 
he >was at the undertaker's, as soon as they had stitched him together, and 
were going to put the body into the coffin, George, in my Lord Chance lor's 
vo 1C e, said, "My Lord Lovat, your Lordship may rise.'' See Suffolk Let- 
ters vol. i. p. 189. Croker's ed. of Boswell, vol. i. p. 155. Wal^JsL^ 
to H. Mann, vol. h. p. 205. Letter clxxiii. M. ? 



TO WHARTON. 185 

gett, that is obliged to lie in the room every night with him. 
When first he was introduced to him, he made him come to 
his bedside, where he lay in a hundred flannel waistcoats, and 
a furred night-gown, took him in his arms, and gave him a 
long embrace, that absolutely suffocated him. He will speak 
nothing but French; insists upon it that Maggett is a French- 
man, and calls him " mon clier Capitaine Magot" (you know 
Magot is a monkey.) At his head lie two Highland women, 
at his feet two Highland men. He is to be impeached by 
the House of Commons, because not being actually in arms, 
it would otherwise be necessary that the jury of Inverness 
should find a bill of indictment against him, which it is very 
sure they would not do. When the duke returned to Edin_ 
burgh, they refused to admit Kingston's Light Horse, and 
talked of their privileges; but they came in sword in hand, and 
replied, that when the Pretender was at their gates, they had 
said nothing of their privileges. The duke rested some hours 
there, but refused to see the magistracy. I believe you may 
think it full time, that I close my budget of stories; Mr. 
Walpole I have seen a good deal, and shall do a good deal 
more, I suppose, for he is looking for a house somewhere 
about Windsor* during the summer. All is mighty free, 
and even friendly, more than one could expect. You remem- 
ber a paper in the Museum, on Message Cardst, which he 
told me was Fielding's, and asked my opinion about ; it was 
his own, and so was the Advertisement on Good Breeding:}:,, 
that made us laugh so. Mr. Ashton I have had several 
conversations with, and do really believe he shows himself 
to me, such as he really is : I don't tell you I like him ever 

* See Walpole's Letters to Mann, vol. i. p. 172. 1 have taken a pretty 
house at Windsor, and am going there for the remainder of the summer. I 
have taken a small house here within the castle ! — M. 

t Published in Walpole's Works, vol. i. p. 132; and No. ii. of the Mu- 
seum, April, 1746. M. 

J See Walpole's Works, vol. i. p. 141 ; and No. v. of the Museum^ May, 
1746. M. 

H 3 



186 GRAY 

the better for it; but that may be my fault, not his. The 
Pelhams lie very hard at his stomach ; he is not forty yet ; 
but he is thirty-one, he says, and thinks it his duty to be 
married. One thing of that kind is just broke off; she had 
1 2,000£ in her own hands. This is a profound secret, but I 
not conceiving that he told me it as such, happened to tell it 
to Stonhewer, who told it to Lyne, who told it to Ashton 
again, all in the space of three hours, whereby I incurred a 
scolding; so pray don't let me fall under a second, and lose 
all my hopes of rising in the church. 

The Muse, I doubt, is gone, and has left me in far worse 
company; if she returns you will hear of her. You see I 
have left no room for a cata"!ogue, which is a sort of policy, 
for it's hardly possible my memory should supply one : I will 
try by next time, which will be soon, if I hear from you. . If 
your curiosity require any more circumstances of these tryals 
. . . will see . . . find some . . . My best com- 
pliments to the little man of the world. 

Adieu my dear Wharton, 

Believe me very truly yours, 

T.Gray. 

Stoke, Sunday, 13th August, 1746. 



LETTER XLYI. 



Gray to Nicholls. — Netley Abbey and Southampton.— 
Beautiful Sunset, 

I received your letter at Southampton, and as I would 
wish to treat everybody according to their own rule and 
measure of good breeding, have, against my inclination, 
waited till now before I answered it, purely out of fear and 
respect, and an ingenious diffidence of my own abilities. If 
you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a 
well-turned period, which is always my principal concern. 



TO NICHOLLS. 187 

So I proceed to tell you that my health is much improved 
by the sea, not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the common 
people do: no! I only walked by it, and looked upon it. 
The climate is remarkably mild, even in October and Novem- 
ber ; no snow has been seen to lie there for these thirty years 
past; the myrtles grow in the ground against the houses, and 
Guernsey lilies bloom in every window; the town, clean and 
well-built, surrounded by its old stone walls, with their 
towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, and 
opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having formed 
two beautiful bays on each hand of it, stretches away in 
direct view till it joins the British Channel; it is skirted on 
either side with gently-rising grounds, clothed with thick 
wood, and directly across its mouth rise the high lands of the 
Isle of "Wight at distance, but distinctly seen*. In the 
bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes), lie hid 
the ruins of Netley Abbey ; there may be richer and greater 
houses of religion, but the Abbot is content with his situation. 
See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the 
shade of those old trees that bend into a half circle about 
it, he is walking slowly (good man !) and telling his beads 
for the souls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile 
that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descend- 
ing) nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have 
excluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye ; 
only on either hand they leave an opening to the blue 
glittering sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail 
shot by and was lost, he turned and crossed himself to drive 
the tempter from him that had thrown that distraction in his 
way ? I should tell you, that the ferryman who rowed me, a 
lusty young fellow, told me that he would not for all the 
world pass a night at the Abbey (there were such things seen 
near it) though there was a power of money hid there. From 

* See his letter, (describing the southern coast of Hampshire.) to Dr. 
Wharton, Aug. A, 1755. 



188 



GRAY TO NICH0LLS. 



thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge ; but of 
these I say no more • they will be published at the University 
press. 

P. S. I must not close my letter without giving you one 
principal event of my history; which was, that (in the course 
of my late tour), I set out one morning before five o'clock, the 
moon shining through a dark and misty, autumnal air, and got 
to the sea-coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I saw 
the clouds and dark vapours open gradually to right and left, 
rolling over one another in great smoky wreaths, and the 
tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sand), first whitening, 
then slightly tinged with gold and blue; and all at once a 
little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write 
these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a 
whole one, too glorious to be distinctly seen *. It is very 
odd it makes no figure on paper ; yet I shall remember it as 
long as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder 
whether any body ever saw it before? I hardly believe it. 

* This puts me in mind of a similar description written by Dr. Jeremy 
Taylor, which I shall here beg leave to present to the reader, who will find 
by it that the old divine had occasionally as much power of description as 
even our modern poets. "As when the sun approaches towards the gates 
of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the 
spirits of darkness ; gives light to the cock, and calls up the lark to mattins ; 
and by and by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, 
thrusting out his golden horns . . .; and still, (while a man tells the 
story) the sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face and a full light."— 
J. Taylor's Holy Dying, p. 17. Mason. 









LETTER XLVII. 
Shenstone to Mr. J ago. — Rural Occupations. 

Richard Jago, the friend and correspondent of Shenstone, was 
bom at Bandesert, Warwickshire, his father's living, in 1715, and 
proceeded from the grammar-school at Solihull, in his native 
county, to University College, Oxford. Having taken Holy 
Orders, he successively obtained the livings of Harbury, Snitters- 
field, in Warwickshire, and Kincote, in Leicestershire. He died 
upon the 8th of April, 1781. Jago belongs to the lowest form of 
our minor poets : if, indeed, he can be permitted to retain even that 
humble position. An Elegy upon a Blackbird, published in the 
Adventurer ', introduced his name into the miscellanies of the day; 
and, in 1767, a descriptive poem, in four books, entitled Edge-Hill, 
brought him more prominently forward as a candidate for poetical 
renown. But of this work nothing can be said to recall the atten- 
tion of criticism ; and the author will continue to be remembered 
only as the friend of Shenstone. 



Dear Sir, The Leasowes, March 23, 1747-8. 

I have sent Tom over for the papers which I left under 
your inspection, having nothing to add upon this head, but 
that the more freely and particularly you give me your 
opinion, the greater will be the obligation which I shall 
have to acknowledge. I shall be very glad if I happen to 
receive a good large bundle of your own compositions, in 
regard to which I will observe any commands which you 
shall please to lay upon me. I am favoured with a certain 
correspondence by way of letter, which I told you I should 
be glad to cultivate, and I find it very entertaining. Pray 
did you receive my answer to your last letter, sent by way of 
London? I should be extremely sorry to be debarred the 
pleasure of writing to you by the post, as often I feel a 
violent propensity to describe the notable incidents of my 
life, which amount to about as much as the tinsel of your 
little boy's hobby-horse. I am on the point of purchasing a 



190 



SHENSTONE 



couple of busts for the niches of my hall; and, believe me, my 
good friend, I never proceed one step in ornamenting my 
little farm but I enjoy the hopes of rendering it more agree- 
able to you, and the small circle of acquaintance which some- 
times favour me with their company. 

I shall be extremely glad to see you and Mr. Fancourt 
when the trees are green, that is, in May ; but I would not 
have you content yourself with a single visit this summer. 
If Mr. Hardy, (to whom you will make my compliments,) 
inclines to favour me so far, you must calculate so as to wait 
on him whenever he finds it convenient, though I have better 
hopes of making his reception here agreeable to him when my 
Lord Dudley comes down. I wonder how he would like the 
scheme I am upon of exchanging a large tankard for a silver 
standish. I have had a couple of paintings given me since 
you were here; one of them is a Madonna, valued, as it is said, 
at ten guineas in Italy, but which you would hardly purchase 
at five shillings. However, T am endeavouring to make it 
out to be one of Carlo Maratt's, who was a first hand, and 
famous for Madonnas; even so as to be nick-named Cartucciodelle 
Madonne by Salvator Rosa. So letters of the cypher (C M.) 
agree; what shall I do with regard to the third?. It is a 
small piece, and sadly blackened. It is about the size (though 
not quite the shape), of the Bacchus over the parlour-door, 
and has much such a frame. 

A person may amuse himself almost as cheaply as he pleases. 
I find no small delight in rearing all sorts of poultry; geese, pul- 
lets, ducks, &c. I am also somewhat smitten with a black-bird 
which I have purchased, — a very fine one, — a brother by father, 
but not by mother, to the unfortunate bird you so beautifully 
describe, a copy of which description you must not fail to 
send me; but, as I said before, one may easily habituate one's 
self to cheap amusements, that is, rural ones, (for all town 
amusements are horridly expensive.) I would have you cul- 
tivate your garden; plant flowers; have a bird or two in the 



TO JAGO. 191 

hall ; (they will at least amuse your children,) write now and 
then a song ; buy now and then a book ; write now and then 
a letter to your most sincere friend and affectionate servant. 

P. S. I hope you have exhausted all your spirit of criticism 
upon my verses, that you may have none left to cavil at this 
letter; for I am ashamed to think that you in particular 
should receive the dullest I ever wrote in my life. Make my 
compliments to Mrs. Jago; she can go a little abroad for joy; 
tell her I should be proud to show her the Leasowes. Adieu ! 



LETTER XL VIII. 



The Countess of Hertford, afterwards Duchess of So- 
merset, to Lady Luxborough.-*-Spring-weather— 
Thomson 's Castle of Indolence — Shenstone^s School- 
mistress. 

Hannah More, while pronouncing, very unjustly, the severest 
censure upon Shenstone's Correspondence, excepted the letters of 
the Countess of Hertford, which she thought very pleasant and 
unaffected productions. 



Dear Madam, Piercy Lodge, May J6, 1748. 

How long soever your letters are in coming, they 
never fail to assure their welcome, by being more agreeable 
and entertaining, as well as breathing more of friendship, 
than any body's else have the art of doing. I have been 
here about a month, and find some little improvements, 
which were ordered when we went to London, com- 
pleted; and I think they are not quite unworthy of the 
name. A piece of waste ground, on the lower side of the 
Abbey- walk, has been turned into a corn-field, and a turf- 
walk, about eight feet wide round it, close to a flourishing 
hawthorn-hedge; on one side there is a thatched seat open on 
three sides, which pretends to no name of greater dignity 



192 MARCHIONESS OF HERTFORD 

than justly belongs to what it represents, namely, a shep- 
herd's hut: before it there is an irregular piece of turf, which 
was spared for the sake of some old oaks and beeches which 
are scattered upon it ; and as you are sitting down there, you 
have, under these boughs, a direct view of Windsor Castle. 
There are sweet-williams, narcissuses, rose-campions, and 
such flowers as the hares will not eat, in little borders, round 
the foot of every tree; and I almost flatter myself that you 
would not be displeased with the rural appearance of the 
whole. The rains have given us the strongest verdure I ever 
saw; our lawns and meadows are enamelled with a profusion 
of daisies and cowslips; and we have the greatest appearance 
of fruit that has been seen there many years. I conclude you 
will read Mr. Thomson's Castle of Indolence ; it is after the man- 
ner of Spenser, but I think he does not always keep so close 
to his style as the author of the School- Mistress, whose name 
I never knew, till you were so good as to inform me of it. 
I think it a charming poem; and was very much pleased 
with his ballad of Queen Elizabeth's seeing the Milk-maid. 
She appears at least, in my humble imagination, in a more 
natural light, than when we hear of her bullying foreign 
powers; and cutting off the head of an unhappy queen, who 
fled to her for protection. But to return to the Castle of Indo- 
lence, I believe it will afford you much entertainment; there 
are many pretty paintings in it, but I think the Wizard's 
Song deserves a preference. " He needs no muse who dictates 
from his heart." Have you met with two little volumes, which 
contain four contemplations, written by a Mr. James Hervey, 
a young Cornish or Devonshire clergyman. The subjects are 
upon Walking among the Tombs, upon a Flower Garden, 
upon Night, and upon the Starry Heavens. There is some- 
thing poetical and truly pious. Now I have got into the 
impertinance of recommending books to one who is a much 
better judge than myself, I must name an Essay on Delicacy, 
a subject which, if I were not acquainted with you, and one 



TO LADY LUXB0R0UGH. 193 

or two more, I should imagine had no longer an existence 
upon our globe. 

I sincerely sympathize in the pleasure which you must 
feel, dear madam, from the extreme good character which 
everybody gives of your son, and which his behaviour to you 
proves he deserves; may this, with every other blessing, be 
long continued to you; and may you always look upon me 
as a sincere though insignificant friend, as well as a most 
faithful and obedient, &c. 

My lord is at present in London, but I hope he will be 
here time enough to save the postage of this letter. I should 
be very glad to see anything of Mr. Shenstone's. 



LETTER XLIX. 



Mrs. Montagu to the Duchess of Portland. — A letter 
from the Shades. 

Mrs. Montagu, the daughter of Matthew Robinson, Esq. of 
West Lay ton, was bom at York, October 2, 1720, and was, from 
her childhood, remarkable for vivacity and beauty. She became 
a letter- writer in her eleventh year; and her correspondence at 
that age with Lady Margaret Harley, has been preserved. She 
carried into maturerlife all the buoyancy of her j^outh : her friends 
called her " La petite Fidget." Her residence in Portman-square, 
the resort of the celebrated Blue Stocking Club, was the centre of 
the most brilliant society in London. Her literary talents were 
neither extensive nor profound. The Essay upon Shakspeare, 
which Johnson said consisted of pack-thread, is a pleasing and 
discursive review of dramatic poetry, such as might easily be 
written by an accomplished woman, whose learning was inferior 
to her taste. When Johnson asserted that not a single sentence of 
true criticism was to be found in her book, he certainly exceeded the 
legitimate bounds of criticism. She originates nothing, but some 
of her re-productions are ingenious and appropriate ; of the genius 
of Ben Jonson, whose Catiline and jSejanus Mrs. Montagu vehe- 



194 MRS. MONTAGU 

mently censures, her knowledge appears to have been very super- 
ficial; but her remarks upon the French Drama are often just and 
penetrating. Dying in the Autumn of ] 800, Mrs. Montagu lived 
to behold the dawn of a new era in poetry and in art ; to find 
the Night Thoughts of her friend Young superseded by a more 
gorgeous spirit of imagination ; and the Vicar of Goldsmith, and 
the Evelina of Miss Burney, almost buried by the overflow of a 
new school of Romance. 



Madam, 1739. 

As I always acquaint your grace with my motions 
from place to place, I think it incumbent upon me to let you 
know I died last Thursday; having that day expected to hear 
of a certain duchess, and being disappointed, I fell into a 
vexation, and from thence into a chagrin, and from that into 
a melancholy, with a complicated et cetera, and so expired, 
and have since crossed the Styx, though Charon was loth to 
receive me into the boat. Pluto inquired into the cause of 
my arrival, and upon telling it him, he said, that lady had 
sent many lovers there by her cruelty, but I was the first 
friend who was despatched by her neglect. I thought it 
proper to acquaint you with my misfortune, and therefore 
called for the pen and ink Mrs. Rowe had used to write her 
letters from the dead to the living, and consulted with the 
melancholy lovers you had sent there before me, what I should 
say to you; one was for beginning " Obdurate Fair/' one for 
addressing you in metre, another in metaphor; but I found 
those lovers so sublime a set of ghosts, that their advice was 
no service to me, so I applied to the other inhahitants of 
Erebus. I went to Ixion for counsel, but his head was so 
giddy with turning, that he could not give me a steady 
opinion; Sisyphus was so much out of breath with walking 
up hill, he could not make me an answer; Tantalus was so 
dry he could not speak to be understood; and Prometheus 
had such a gnawing at his stomach, he could not attend to 
what I said. Presently after I met Eurydice, who asked 



TO THE DUCHESS OF PORTLAND. 195 

me if I could sing a tune, for Pluto had a very good ear, and 
I might release her for ever, for though 

Fate had fast hound her, 

With Styx nine times round her, 

Yet singing a tune was victorious. 

I told her that I had no voice, but that there was one Lady 
Wallingford in the other world, who could sing and play like 
her own Orpheus, but that I hoped she would not come 
thither a great while. The fatal sisters said they had much 
fine thread to spin for her yet, and so Madame Eurydice must 
wait with patience. Charon says the packet-boat is ready, 
and ghosts will not wait, so I must take my leave of you to 
my great grief; for, as Bays in The Rehearsal says, (l Ghosts 
are not obliged to speak sense." I could have added a great 
deal more. Pluto gives his service, and Proserpine is your 
humble servant. We live here very elegantly; we dine upon 

essence,, like the Duke of N ; we eat aud drink the soul 

and spirit of everything; we are all thin, and well shaped; 
but what most surprised me was, to see Sir Robert Austin, * 
who arrived here when I did, a perfect shadow; indeed, I 
was not so much amazed that he had gone the way of all 
flesh, as to meet him in the state of all spirit. At first, I took 

him for Sir -, his cousin; but upon hearing him say how 

many ton he was shrunk in circumference, I easily found him 
out. I shall wait patiently till our packet wafts me a letter 
from your grace : being now divested of passion, I can, as a 
ghost, stay a post or two under your neglect, though flesh 
and blood would not bear it. All that remains of me is, 

Your faithful shade, 

E. Robinson 
Written from Pluto's palace, by darkness visible. 

* A very fat man. 



196 



LETTER L. 
The Poet Thomson to Mr. Paterson. — News from Home. 

The following letter, though wanting a date, is supposed, from 
the allusion to the publication of The Castle o/Indolence y to have been 
written in the April of 1748. Paterson, to whom Thomson devoted 
one of the stanzas of that exquisite poem, had been his companion, 
and was then his deputy in the office of Surveyor-General of the 
Leeward Isles. Paterson was accustomed, as we are informed by 
Murdoch, " to write out fair copies for his friend, when such were 
required, for the press or for the stage. This gentleman, likewise, 
courted the tragic muse; and had taken for his subject the story of 
Arminius, the German hero. But his play, guiltless as it was, 
being presented for a license, no sooner had the censor cast his eyes 
on the hand- writing in which he had seen Edward and Eleonoa, 
than he cried out, i Away with it ;' and the author's profits were 
reduced to what his bookseller could afford for a tragedy in dis- 
tress." The play alluded to had been offered by Thomson to the 
theatre in 1739, but its representation was prohibited on account 
of some political allusions. In little more than four months after 
the transmission of this interesting letter, the poet of The Seasons 
was no more. Thomson disliked letter- writing, and his prose is 
deficient in harmony and grace ; but it reflects the man, although 
the author is for a time forgotten. 



Dear Paterson, 

In the first place, and previous to my letter, I must 
recommend to your favour and protection, Mr. James Smith, 
searcher, in St. Christopher's ; and I beg of you, as occasion 
shall serve, and you find he merits it, to advance him in the 
business of the customs. He is warmly recommended to me 
by Sargent, who, in verity, turns out one of the best men of our 
youthful acquaintance, — honest, honourable, friendly, and 
generous. If we are not to oblige one another, life becomes 
a paltry selfish affair, — a pitiful morsel in a corner. Sargent 
is so happily married, that I could almost say, the same case 
happen to us all. That I have not answered several letters of 



THOMSON TO PATERSON. 197 

yours is not owing to the want of friendship, and the sincerest 
regard for you ; but you know me well enough to account 
for my silence, without my saying any more upon that 
head; besides, I have very little to say that is worthy of 
being transmitted over the great ocean. The world either 
fertilises so much, or we grow so dead to it, that its transac- 
tions make but feeble impressions upon us. Retirement and 
nature are more and more my passion every day; and now, 
even now, the charming time comes on. Heaven is just on 
the point, or rather in the very act, of giving earth a green 
gown. The voice of the nightingale is heard in our lane. 
You must know that I have enlarged my rural domain much 
to the same dimensions you have done yours. The two fields 
next to me, from the first of which I have walled, — no, no, — 
paled in, about as much as my garden consisted .of before, so 
that the walk runs round the hedge, where you may figure 
me walking any time of the day, and sometimes in the night. 
I imagine you reclining under cedars, and there enjoying more 
magnificent slumbers than are known to the pale climates of 
the north; slumbers rendered awful and divine by the solemn 
stillness and deep fervours of the torrid noon. At other 
times, I imagine you drinking punch in groves of lime or 
orange-trees, gathering pine-apples from hedges as commonly 
as we may blackberries, poetising under lofty laurels, or 
making love under full spread myrtles. But, to lower my 
style a little, as I am such a genuine lover of gardening, why 
do not you remember me in that instance, and send me some 
seeds of things that might succeed here in the summer, though 
they cannot perfect their seed sufficiently in this, to them 
uncongenial climate to propagate? As to more impor- 
tant business, I have nothing to write to you. You know 
best. Be, as you always must be, just and honest; but if 
you are unhappily romantic, you shall come home without 
money, and write a tragedy on yourself. Mr. Lyttleton told 
me that the Grenvilles and he had strongly recommended the 



J9tf THOMSON 

person the governor and you proposed for that considerable 
office, lately fallen vacant in your department, and that there 
was good hope of succeeding. He told me, also, that Mr. 
Pitt said that it was not to be expected that offices, such as 
that is, for which the greatest interest is made here at home, 
could be accorded to your recommendation; but that as to the 
middling or inferior offices, if there was not some particular 
reason to the contrary, regard would be had thereto. This is 
all that can be reasonably desired; and if you are not infected 
with a certain Creolian distemper, whereof I am persuaded 
your soul will utterly resist the contagion, as I hope your 
body will that of the natural ones, there are few men so 
capable of that imperishable happiness, that peace and satis- 
faction of mind, at least, that proceeds from being reasonable 
and moderate in our desires as you. These are the treasures 
dug from an inexhaustible mine in our own breasts, which, 
like those in the kingdom of heaven, the rust of time cannot 
corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. I must learn 
to work this mine a little more, being struck off from a certain 
hundred pounds a year, which you know I had. West, 
Hallet, and I, were all routed in one day; if you know not 

why out of compliment to our friend in Argyll-street. 

Yet I have hopes given me of having it restored with interest, 
some time or other. Oh ! that " some time or other" is a 
great deceiver. 

Coriolanus has not yet appeared on the stage, from the 
little dirty jealousy of Tullus* towards him who alone can act 
Coriolanust. Indeed, the first has entirely jockeyed the last 
off the stage, for this season, like a giant in his wrath. Let 
us have a little more patience, Paterson; nay, let us be cheer- 
ful ; at last all will be well, at least all will be over — here I 
mean: God forbid it should be so hereafter! But, as sure as 
there is a God, that cannot be. Now that I am prating of 
myself, know that, after fourteen or fifteen years, the Castle 

* Gar rick. t Quin. 



TO PATERSON. 199 

of Indolence comes abroad in a fortnight. It will certainly 
travel as far as Barbadoes. You have an apartment in it as 
a night pensioner, which you may remember I filled up for 
you during our delightful party at North End. Will ever 
those days return again? Do you not remember eating the 
raw fish that were never caught ? All our friends are pretty 
much in statu quo, except it be poor Mr. Lyttleton : he has 
had the severest trial a human tender heart can have*; but 
the old physician, Time, will at last close up his wounds, 
though there must always remain an inward smarting. Mit- 
chell t is in the House, for Aberdeenshire, and has spoke 
modestly well; I hope he will be something else soon, — none 
deserves better: true friendship and humanity dwell in his 
heart. . . . Symmer is at last tired of gaiety, and is 
going to take a semi-country house at Hammersmith. I am 
sorry that honest sensible Warrender, who is in town, seems 
to be stunted in church preferments: he ought to be a tall 
cedar in the house of the Lord. If he is not so at last, it 
will add more fuel to my indignation, that burns already too 
intensely, and throbs towards an eruption. Patrick Murdoch 
is in town, tutor to Admiral Yernon's son, and is in good hope 
of another living in Suffolk. Good-natured, obliging Miller, 
is as usual. Though the Doctor $ increases in business, he does 
not decrease in spleen, that is, both humane and agreeable, 
like Jacques in the play ; I sometimes, too, have a touch of it. 
But I must break off that chat with you about your friends, 
which, were I to indulge in, would be endless. As for 
politics, we are, I believe, on the brink of a peace. The 
French are vapouring in present in the siege of Maestricht, at 
the same time they are mortally sick in their marine, and 
through all the vitals of France. It is a pity we cannot con- 
tinue the war a little longer, and put their agonizing trade 
quite to death. This siege, I take it, they mean as their last 

* Death of Mrs. Lyttleton, in the January of 1746—7. 
f Afterwards envoy to Berlin. $ Dr. Armstrong. 



200 THOMSON TO PATERSON. 

flourish in the war. May your health, which never failed 
you yet, still continue, till you have scraped together enough 
to return home and live in some snug corner as happy as the 
corycian senex, in Virgil's fourth Georgic, to whom I recom- 
mend, both to you and myself, as a perfect model of the 
honest happy life. 

Believe me to be ever 
Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 

James Thomson. 



LETTER LI. 



Goldsmith to Daniel Hodson, Esq. at Lishoy, near 
Ballymahon, Ireland. — His situation in London; 
Affecting remembrance of his Native Village. 

If Johnson had fulfilled his intention of writing the Life of 
Goldsmith, we might have obtained a narrative, not yielding in 
interest to the story of Savage ; and possessing, at the same time, a 
livelier and juster claim upon our sympathy. After wandering 
over Europe on foot, without friends or money, Goldsmith arrived 
in London, early in 1756. Here the biographer loses sight of him 
for a season ; but it is certain that he sought for temporary relief in 
the miserable situation of usher in a school : of all offiqes the most 
menial and degrading. He has recorded his sufferings under this 
irksome bondage. "I was up early and late ; I was brow-beat by 
the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the 
boys within, and never permitted to stir out to receive civility 
abroad." Abandoning the scholastic profession for the medical, he 
became an assistant to a chemist on Fish-street Hill ; and soon 
after, with the aid of a few friends, began to practise as a physician 
in Bank Side, South wark. At the house of Dr. Milner of Peck- 
ham, Goldsmith happened to meet Griffiths, a bookseller in 
Paternoster Row, and proprietor of the Monthly Review. The 
connexion which was soon after formed between the publisher and 
the poet, did not continue many months. In the mean time, his 
medical pursuits were not neglected. In 1757, he published an 
account of Intermittent Fever during 1746-7-8 ; and, in March 



GOLDSMITH TO DANIEL HODSON. 201 

1758, became a member of the College of Physicians. The follow- 
ing letter was written after his secession from the Monthly Review. 
u In the opening passage," says Mr. Prior, " there is some obscurity. 
He talks of four years having elapsed since his last letters went to 
Ireland : this can apply only to such as were addressed to Mr. 
Hodson, which was correct ; but he had written from the conti- 
nent to his brother Henry, to Mr. Contarine, to Mrs. Lawder, and, 
it is believed, to Mr. Mills of Roscommon." 



It may be four years since my last letters went to Ireland, 
and from you in particular, I received no answer, probably 
because you never wrote to me. My brother Charles, how- 
ever, informs me of the fatigue you were at in soliciting a 
subscription to assist me, not only among my friends and 
relations, but acquaintances in general. Though my pride 
might feel some repugnance in being thus relieved, yet my 
gratitude can suffer no diminution. How much am I obliged 
to you, to them, for such generosity, or (why should not 
your virtues have the proper name,) for such charity to me at 
that juncture. Sure I am born to ill fortune, to be so much 
a debtor, and unable to repay. But to say no more of this ; 
too many professions of gratitude are often considered indirect 
petitions for future favours. Let me only add, that my not 
receiving that supply, was the cause of my present establish- 
ment in London. You may easily imagine what difficulties 
I had to encounter, left as I was without friends, recommen- 
dations, money, or impudence, and that in a country, where 
being born an Irishman, was sufficient to keep me unem- 
ployed. Many in such circumstances would have had 
recourse to the friar's end, or the suicide's halter. But with 
all my follies, I had principle to resist the one, and resolution 
to combat the other. 

I suppose you desire to know my present situation : as 
there is nothing in it at which I should blush, or which 
mankind could censure, I see no reason for making it a secret. 

i 



202 GOLDSMITH 

In short, by a very little practice as a physician, and a very 
little reputation as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is 
more apt to introduce us to the gates of the Muses than 
poverty ; but it were well for us if they only left us at the 
door ; the mischief is, they sometimes choose to give us their 
company at the entertainments ; and Want, instead of being 
gentleman-usher, often turns master of the ceremonies. Thus, 
upon hearing I write, no doubt you imagine I starve : and 
the name of an author naturally reminds you of a garret. 
In this particular I do not think proper to undeceive my 
friends ; but whether I eat or starve, live in first floor, or 
four pairs of stairs high, I still remember them with ardour. 
Nay, my very country comes in for a share of my affection ; 
unaccountable fondness for country, this maladie du pays, as 
the French call it ; unaccountable that he should still have 
an affection for a place, who never received, when in it, but 
common civility : who never brought anything out of it, 
except his brogue and his blunders. Surely my affection is 
equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's, who refused to be 
cured of the itch, because it made him " unco thoughtful of 
his wife and borinie Inverary." But now to be serious, let 
me ask myself what gives me a wish to see Ireland again ? 
The country is a fine one perhaps. No. There are good 
company in Ireland. No. Then perhaps, there is more 
wit and learning among the Irish. Oh, Lord ! No. There 
has been more money spent in the encouragement of the 
Podareen mare there in one season, than given in rewards to 
learned men since the time of Usher. All their productions 
in learning amount to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts 
in divinity, and all their productions in wit to just nothing 
at all. Why the plague, then, so fond of Ireland ? Then all 
at once, because you, my dear friend, and a few men who are 
exceptions to the general picture, have a residence there. 
This it is that gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. I 
confess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring the 



TO DANIEL HODSON. 203 

pleasures I at present possess. If I go to the opera, where 
Signora Columba pours out all the mazes of melody, I sit and 
sigh for Lishoy fireside, and Johnny Armstrong's Last Good 
Night from Peggy Golden. If I climb Flamstead Hill, than 
where nature never exhibited a more magnificent prospect, I 
confess it fine, but then I had rather be placed upon the 
little mount before Lishoy gate, and then take in, to me, the 
most pleasing horizon in nature. Before Charles came 
thither, my thoughts sometimes found refuge from severe 
studies among my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange 
revolutions at home ; but I find it was the rapidity of my 
own motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really at 
rest. No alterations there. ' Some friends, he tells me, are 
still lean, but very rich ; others very fat, but still very poor. 
Nay, all the news I hear of you is, that you and Mrs. Hodson 
sometimes sally out in visits among the neighbours, and 
sometimes make a migration from the blue bed to the brown. 
I could from my heart wish that you and she, and Lishoy, 
and Ballymahon, and all of you, would fairly make a migra- 
tion into Middlesex; though upon second thoughts, this 
might be attended with a few inconveniences. Therefore, 
as the mountain will not come to Mahomet, why Mahomet 
shall go to the mountain ; or to speak plain English, as you 
cannot conveniently pay me a visit, if next summer I can 
contrive to be absent six weeks from London, I shall spend 
three of them among my friends in Ireland ; but first believe 
me, my design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a figure, 
nor levy contributions ; neither to excite envy, nor solicit 
favour. In fact, my circumstances are adapted to neither. 
I am too poor to be gazed at, and too rich to need assistance. 
You see, dear Dan, how long I have been talking about 
myself ; but attribute my vanity to my affection, as every 
man is fond of himself ; and I consider you as a second self, 
and imagine you will consequently be pleased with these 
instances of egotism. * * My dear sir, these 

I 2 



204 GOLDSMITH TO DANIEL HODSON. 

things give me real uneasiness, and I could wish, to redress 
them. But at present there is hardly a thing done in 
Europe in which I am not a debtor. I have already dis- 
charged my most threatening and pressing demands, for we 
must be just before we can be grateful. For the rest I need 
not say, (you know I am), 

Your affectionate kinsman, 
Temple Exchange Coffee-house, Oliver Goldsmith. 

Near Temple-Bar, 
{Where you may direct an answer.) 

December 27, 1757- 



LETTER LII. 



The same to his Brother, the Rev. Henry Goldsmith. — 
Beginning life at thirty-one ; The effects of sorrow 
upon his disposition. 

This letter, having no date, is supposed to have been written 
early in February, 1759. The heroi-comical poem never appears 
to have grown beyond the specimen which he subsequently intro- 
duced, with some additions, into the Citizen of the World, and, 
with a few beneficial alterations, into the Deserted Village. Henry 
Goldsmith, the curate of Kilkenny West, will never be forgotten 
as the good parson, "passing rich with forty pounds a-year," 
which, indeed, was the actual amount of his stipend. He died in 
the forty-fifth year of his age, lamented by all who were acquainted 
with the Christian meekness and simplicity of his character. 



Dear Sir, 

Your punctuality in answering a man whose trade is 
writing, is more than I had reason to expect, and yet you 
see me generally fill a whole sheet, which is all the recom- 
pense I can make for being so frequently troublesome. The 
behaviour of Mr. Mills and Mr. Lauder is a little extraordi- 
nary. However, their answering neither you nor me, is a 



GOLDSMITH TO HIS BROTHER. 205 

sufficient indication of their disliking the employment which 
I assigned them. As their conduct is different from what I 
had expected, so I have made an alteration in mine. I shall, 
the beginning of next month, send over two hundred and fifty- 
books *, which are all that I fancy can be well sold among 
you, and I would have you make some distinction in the 
persons who have subscribed. The money, which will amount 
to 60/., may be left with Mr. Bradley as soon as possible. I 
am not certain but I shall quickly have occasion for it. I 
have met with no disappointment with respect to my East 
India voyage, nor are my resolutions altered ; though at the 
same time, I must confess it gives me some pain to think I 
am almost beginning the world at the age of thirty-one. 
Though I never had a day's sickness since I saw you, yet I am 
not that strong active man you once knew me. You scarcely 
can conceive how much eight years of disappointment, 
anguish, and study, have worn me down. If I remember 
right, you are seven or eight years older than me, yet I dare 
venture to say, if a stranger saw us both, he would pay me 
the honours of seniority. Imagine to yourself a pale melan- 
choly visage, with two great wrinkles between the eye-brows, 
with an eye disgustingly severe, and a bag wig, and you may 
have a perfect picture of my present appearance On the 
other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek and healthy, 
passing many a happy day among your own children, or 
those who knew you a child. Since I knew what it was to 
be a man, this is a pleasure I have not known. I have 
passed my days among a parcel of cool disgusting beings, and 
have contracted all- their suspicious manner in my own beha- 
viour. I should actually be as unfit for the society of my 
friends at home, as I detest that which I am obliged to par- 
take of here. I can now neither partake of the pleasure of a 
revel, nor contribute to raise its jollity. I can neither laugh 
nor drink, have contracted an hesitating disagreeable manner 

* The Enquiry into Polite Literature. 



206 GOLDSMITH 

of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself; in 
short, I have brought myself into a settled melancholy, and 
an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this 
romantic turn that all our family are possessed with ? whence 
this love for every place and every country, but that in 
which we reside ? for every occupation but our own ? This 
desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissipate ? I 
perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals for indulging 
this splenetic manner, and following my own taste, regardless 
of yours. 

The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son 
a scholar, are judicious and convincing. I should, however, 
be glad to know for what particular profession he is designed. 
If he be assiduous, and divested of strong passions (for passions 
in youth always lead to pleasure,) he may do very well in 
your college ; for it must be owned that the industrious poor 
have good encouragement there, perhaps better than in any 
other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strong passions, 
and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send him there, 
unless you have no other trade for him except your own. It 
is impossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper 
education at home. A boy, for instance, who understands 
perfectly well Latin, French, arithmetic, and the principles of 
the civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education 
that may qualify him for any undertaking. And these parts 
of learning should be carefully inculcated, let him be designed 
for whatever calling he will. Above all things, let him never 
touch a romance or novel; these paint beauty in colours 
more charming than nature, and describe happiness that 
man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive are these 
pictures of consummate bliss! They teach the youthful 
mind to sigh after beauty and happiness which never existed ; 
to despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, 
by expecting more than she ever gave ; and, in general, (take 
the word of a man who has seen the world, and has studied 



TO HIS BROTHER. 207 

human nature more by experience than precept,) take my 
word for it, I say, that books teach us very little of the 
world. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only 
serve to make the possessor ridiculous ; may distress, but can- 
not relieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower 
orders of mankind, are true ambition. These afford the only 
ladder for the poor to rise to preferment. Teach then, my 
dear sir, to your son, thrift and economy. Let his poor 
wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had 
learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before I 
was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. 
I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, 
while I was exposing myself to the insidious approaches of 
cunning ; and often, by being, even with my narrow finances, 
charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed 
myself in the very situation of the wretch, who did not thank 
me for my bounty. When I am in the remotest part of the 
worlds tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my 
example. But I find myself again falling into my gloomy 
habit of thinking. 

My mother, I am informed, is almost blind: even though 
I had the utmost inclination to return home, under such cir- 
cumstances, I would not ; for to behold her in distress, with- 
out a capacity of relieving her from it, would add too much 
to my splenetic habit. Your last letter was much too short ; 
it should have answered some queries I made in my former. 
Just sit down, as I do, and write forward until you have filled 
all your paper : it requires no thought, at least from the ease 
with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed 
to you ; for, believe me, my head has no share in all I write : 
my heart dictates the whole. Pray give my love to Bob 
Bryanton, and entreat him from me not to drink. My dear 
sir, give me some account about poor Jenny* : yet her husband 
loves her; if so, she cannot be unhappy. 

* His sister, Mrs. Johnson. Her marriage, like that of Mrs. Hodson, was 
private, but in pecuniary matters much less fortunate. — Prior. 



208 GOLDSMITH TO HIS BROTHER. 

Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short: you should 
have given me your opinion of the heroi-comical poem which 
I sent you : you remember, I intended to introduce the hero 
of the poem lying in a paltry ale-house. You may take the 
following specimen of the maimer, which I flatter myself is 
quite original. The room in which he lies may be described 
somewhat in this way : — 

The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 
That feebly showed the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread, 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
The Game of Goose was there exposed to view, 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; 
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face. 
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 
A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire ; 
.An unpaid reckoning on the frize was scored, 
And five crack' d tea-cups dress'd the chimney board. 

And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the landlord to make 
his appearance, in order to dun him for the reckoning: 

Not with that face, so servile and so gay, 
That welcomes every stranger that can pay ; 
"With sulky eye he smoked the patient man, 
Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, &c. 

All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark 
of Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with 
whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take 
my present follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much 
easier and more agreeable species of composition than prose, 
and, could a man live by it, it were no unpleasant employment 
to be a poet. 

I am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill it up 
by only telling you, what you very well know already; I 
mean, that I am your most affectionate friend and brother, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



209 



LETTER LIII. 

Johnson to Boswell. — The proper object of Letter- 
writing. 

When Boswell was setting out on his journey to Holland, 
Johnson testified the sincerity of his regard and esteem by accom- 
panying him to Harwich. They rested the first night at Col- 
chester, and during supper Boswell began, as he confesses, to tease 
his companion with fanciful apprehensions of unhappiness. John- 
son corrected his folly in a manner peculiar to himself. " A moth 
having fluttered round the candle and burnt itself, he laid hold of 
this little incident to admonish me, saying, with a sly look, and in 
a solemn and quiet tone, ' That creature was its own tormentor, 
and I believe its name was Boswell.' " The gloom of Utrecht, 
contrasted with the gaiety of London, deepened Boswell's depres- 
sion, and under its influence he addressed a very desponding letter 
to Johnson, who took no notice of his complaints. A second com- 
munication, written in a happier temper, brought the following 
reply., 



Dear Sir, London, Dec. 8, 1763. 

You are not to think yourself forgotten, or criminally 
neglected, that you have had yet no letter from me. I love 
to see my friends, to hear from them, to talk to them, and to 
talk of them; but it is not without a considerable effort of 
resolution that I prevail upon myself to write. I would not, 
however, gratify my own indolence by the omission of any 
important duty, or any office of real kindness. 

To tell you that I am or am not well, that I have or have 
not been in the country, that I drank your health in the room 
in which we sat last together, and that your acquaintances 
continue to speak of you with their former kindness, topics 
with which those letters are commonly filled which are 
written only for the sake of writing, I seldom shall think 
worth communicating; but if I can have it in my power to 
calm any harassing disquiet, to excite any virtuous desire, to 

13 



210 JOHNSON 

rectify any important opinion, or fortify any generous resolu- 
tion, you need not doubt but I shall at least wish to prefer the 
pleasure of gratifying a friend much less esteemed than yourself 
before the gloomy calm of idle vacancy. Whether I shall easily 
arrive at an exact punctuality of correspondence, I cannot tell. 
I shall at present expect that you will receive this in return for 
two which I have had from you. The first, indeed, gave me 
an account so hopeless of the state of your mind, that it hardly 
admitted or deserved an answer; by the second I was much 
better pleased, and the pleasure will still be increased by such 
a narrative of the progress of your studies, as may evince the 
continuance of an equal and rational application of your mind 
to some useful inquiry. 

You will, perhaps, wish to ask, what study I would 
recommend. I shall not speak of theology, because it ought 
not to be considered as a question whether you shall endea- 
vour to know the will of God. 

I shall, therefore, consider only such studies as we are at 
liberty to pursue or to neglect; and of these I know not how 
you will make a better choice, than by studying the civil law, 
as your father advises, and the ancient languages, as you had 
determined for yourself; at least, resolve, while you remain in 
any settled residence, to spend a certain number of hours 
every day amongst your books. The dissipation of thought, 
of which you complain, is nothing more than the vacillation 
of a mind suspended between different motives, and changing 
its direction as any motive gains or loses strength. 

If you can but kindle in your mind any strong desire, if 
you can but keep predominant any wish for some particular 
excellence or attainment, the gusts of imagination will break 
away, without any effect upon your conduct, and commonly 
without any traces left upon the memory. 

There lurks, perhaps, in every human heart a desire of 
distinction, which inclines every man first to hope, and then 
to believe, that nature has given him something peculiar to 



TO BOSWELL. ' 211 

himself. This vanity makes one mind nurse aversions, and 
another actuate desires, till they rise by art much above their 
original state of power; and as affection in time improves 
to habit, they at last tyrannize over him who at first encou- 
raged them only for show. Every desire is a viper in the 
bosom, who, while he was chill was harmless; but, when 
warmth gave him strength, exerted it in poison. You know 
a gentleman, who, when he first set his foot in the gay world, 
as he prepared himself to whirl in the vortex of pleasure, ima- 
gined a total indifference and universal negligence to be the 
most agreeable concomitants of youth, and the strongest indi- 
cation of an airy temper and a quick apprehension. Vacant 
to every object, and sensible of every impulse, he thought 
ihat all appearance of diligence would deduct something from 
the reputation of genius; arid hoped that he should appear to 
attain, amidst all the ease of carelessness, and the tumult of 
diversion, that knowledge, and those accomplishments, which 
mortals of the common fabric obtain only by a mute abstrac- 
tion and solitary drudgery. He tried this scheme of life awhile, 
was made weary of it by his sense and his virtue ; he then 
wished to return to his studies, and, finding long habits of 
idleness and pleasure harder to be cured than he expected, 
still willing to retain his claim to some extraordinary preroga- 
tive, resolved the common consequences of irregularity into 
an unalterable decree of destiny, and concluded that nature 
had originally formed him incapable of rational employment. 

Let all such fancies, illusive and destructive, be banished 
henceforward from your thoughts for ever. 

Resolve, and keep your resolution ; choose, and pursue 
your choice. If you spend this day in study , r you will find 
yourself still more able to study to-morrow ; not that you are 
to expect that you shall at once obtain a complete victory. 
Depravity is not very easily overcome. Resolution will 
sometimes relax, and diligence will sometimes be interrupted; 
but let no accidental surprise or deviation, whether short or 



212 JOHNSON TO BOSWELL. 

long, dispose you to despondency. Consider these failings as 
incident to all mankind. Begin again where you left off, and 
endeavour to avoid the inducements that prevailed over you 
before. 

This, my dear Boswell, is advice which, perhaps, has 
been often given you, and given you without effect. But 
this advice, if you will not take from others, you must take 
from your own reflections, if you purpose to do the duties of 
the station to which the bounty of Providence has called you. 

Let me have a long letter from you as soon as you can. 
I hope you continue your journal, and enrich it with many 
observations upon the country in which you reside. It will 
be a favour if you can get me any books in the Frisick lan- 
guage, and can inquire how the poor are maintained in the 
Seven Provinces. I am, dear Sir, 

Your most affectionate servant- 



LETTER LIV. 

To Mrs. Thrale.—Old Friends. 

This is the first letter, Mr. Croker observes, in which we per- 
ceive that coldness towards Mrs. Thrale, which had, however, 
existed for some time. The allusion to the friends he had lost is 
solemnly pathetic. Johnson was now in his seventy-fourth year; 
and, looking back upon the brilliant circle in which he had been 
accustomed to display his wonderful powers of conversation and 
eloquence, he could not but recal, with sensations of sadness, him 
whose death had eclipsed the gaiety of nations ; and him, of whom 
he had declared, that he touched nothing he did not adorn. Many 
years before he had dismissed his Dictionary with " frigid indiffe- 
rence," as having no relatives or friends whom his success could 
gratify. But these feelings of gloomy dissatisfaction never over- 
came the natural sagacity of his understanding. " If a man does 
not make new acquaintance," he remarked to Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, " as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left 
alone. A man, sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair." 
The moralist realized his own theory. 



JOHNSON TO MRS. THRALE. 213 

Johnson had visited, during his tour to Wales, the seat of Lord 
Kilmurry, of whom mention is made, and significantly noted in his 
Journal, that " he showed the place with too much exultation." 



Dear Madam, London, Nov. 13, 1783. 

Since you have written to me with the attention and 
tenderness of ancient time, your letters give me a great part of 
the pleasure which a life of solitude admits. You will never 
bestow any share of your good-will on one who deserves 
better. Those that have loved longest, love best. A sudden 
blaze of kindness may, by a single blast of coldness, be extin- 
guished; but that fondness, which length of time has con- 
nected with many circumstances and occasions, though it may 
for awhile be suppressed by disgust or resentment, with or 
"without a cause, is hourly revived by accidental recollection. 
To those that have lived long together, everything heard and 
everything seen recals some pleasure communicated or some 
benefit conferred, some petty quarrel, or some slight endear- 
ment. Esteem of great powers, or amiable qualities newly 
discovered, may embroider a day or a week, but a friendship 
of twenty years is interwoven with the texture of life, A 
friend may be often found and lost, but an old friend never 
can be found, and nature has provided that he cannot easily 
be lost. 

I have not forgotten the Davenants, though they seem to 
have forgotton me. I began very early to tell them what 
they have commonly found to be true. I am sorry to hear 
of their building. I have always warned those whom I loved 
against that mode of ostentatious waste. 

You seem to mention Lord Kilmurry as a stranger. We 
were at his house in Cheshire ; and he one day dined with 
Sir Lynch *. What he tells of the epigram is not true, but 
perhaps he does not know it to be false. Do not you remem- 

* Sir Lynch Cotton. See Johnson's Journal of the Tour to Wales. 



214 JOHNSON TO MRS. THRALE. 

. ber how he rejoiced in having no park ? he could not disoblige 
his neighbours by sending them no venison. 

The frequency of death, to those who look upon it in the 
leisure of Arcadia is very dreadful. We all know what it 
should teach us ; let us all be diligent to learn. Lucy Porter 
has lost her brother. But whom I have lost — let me not 
now remember. 

Let not your loss be added to the mournful catalogue. 
Write soon again to Madam, 

Your, &c. 



LETTER LY. 



Horace Walpole to George Montagu. — A Visit to 
Vauxhall. 

George Montagu was the son of Brigadier-General Edward 
Montagu, and nephew to the second Earl of Halifax. He was 
private secretary to Lord North, when chancellor of the ex- 
chequer. 



Dear George, Arlington-street, June 23, 1750. 

As I am not Yannecked*, I have been in no hurry to 
thank you for your congratulation, and to assure you that I 
never knew what solid haj>piness was till I married. Your 
Trevors and Prices dined with me last week at Strawberry 
Hill, and would have had me answer you upon the matrimo- 
nial tone, but I thought I should imitate cheerfulness in that 
style as ill as if I were really married. I have had another 
of your friends with me here some time, whom I adore, — Mr. 
Bentley t. He has more sense, judgment, and wit, more taste, 

* Alluding, probably, to the proposed marriages which soon after took 
place between two of the sons of his uncle, Loud Walpole, who each of them, 
married a daughter of Sir Joshua Vanneck. — Note to Correspondence, edition 
of 1837. 

t The -only son of Dr. Bentley. 



HORACE WALPOLE TO GEORGE MONTAGU. 215 

and more misfortunes, than sure ever met in any man. I 
have heard that Dr. Bentley, regretting his want of taste 
for all such learning as his, which is the very want of 
taste, used to sigh and say, " Tully had his Marcus." If the 
sons resembled, as much as the fathers did, at least in vanity, 
I would be the modest, agreeable Marcus. Mr. Bentley tells 
me that you press him much to visit you at Hawkhurst. I 
advise him, and assure him he will make his fortune under 
you there ; that you are an agent from the Board of Trade to 
the smugglers, and wallow in contraband wine, tea, and silk- 
handkerchiefs. I found an old newspaper the other day, with 
a list of outlawed smugglers ; there was John Price, alias Miss 
Marjoram, Bob Plunder, Bricklayer Tom, and Robin Curse- 
mother, all of Hawkhurst, in Kent. When Miss Harriot is 
thoroughly hardened at Buxton, as I hear she is by lying in 
a public room with the whole wells, from drinking waters, I 
conclude she will come to sip nothing but new brandy. 

As jolly and abominable a life as she may have been lead- 
ing, I defy all her enormities to equal a party of pleasure that 
I had t'other night. I shall relate it to you to show you 
the manners of the age, which are always as entertaining to 
a person fifty miles off, as to one born a hundred and fifty 
years after the time. I had a card from Lady Caroline 
Petersham, to go with her to Vauxhall. I went, accord- 
ingly, to her house, and found her and the little Ashe, or 
the pollard Ashe, as they call her; they had just finished 
their last layer of red, and looked as handsome as crimson 
could make them. On the cabinet door stood a pair of 
Dresden candlesticks, a present from the virgin hands of Sir 
John Bland. We issued into the Mall to assemble our com- 
pany, which was all the town, if we could get it; for just so 
many had been summoned except Sir Harry Vane, whom we 
met by chance. We mustered the duke of Kingston, whom 
Lady Caroline says she has been trying for these seven years ; 
but, alas ! his beauty is at the fall of the leaf; Lord March, 



216 



HORACE WALPOLE 



Mr. Whitehead, a pretty Miss Beauclerc, and a very foolish 
Miss Sparre. These two damsels were trusted by their mo- 
thers for the first time of their lives to the matronly care of 
Lady Caroline. As we sailed up the Mall with all our 
colours flying, Lord Petersham, with his hose and legs twisted 
to every point of crossness, strode by us on the outside, and 
repassed again on the return. At the end of the Mall she 
called to him ; he would not answer ; she gave a familiar 
spring, and, between laugh and confusion, ran up to him. — 
" My lord, my lord, why don't you see us ?" We advanced 
at a little distance, not a little awkward in expectation how 
this would end, for my lord never stirred his hat, or took the 
least notice of anybody. She said, " Do you go with us, or 
are you going anywhere else ?" "I don't go with you, I am 
going somewhere else;" and away he stalked, as sulky as a 
ghost that nobody will speak to first. We got into the best 
order we could, and marched to our barge with a boat of 
French horns attending, and little Ashe singing. We paraded 
some time up the river, and at last debarked at Vauxhall : 
there, if we had so pleased, we might have had the vivacity 
of our party increased by a quarrel ; for a Mrs. Loyd, who is 
supposed to be married to Lord Haddington, seeing the two 
girls following Lady Petersham and Miss Ashe, said aloud, 
" Poor girls ! I am sorry to see them in such bad company." 
Miss Sparre, who desired nothing so much as the fun of 
seeing a duel, — a thing which, though she is fifteen, she has 
never been so lucky to see, — took due pains to make Lord 
March resent this; but he, who is very lively and agreeable, 
laughed her out of this charming frolic with a great deal of 
humour. Here we picked up Lord Granby, arrived, very 
drunk, from Jenny's Whim. ... At last we assembled 
in our booth, Lady Caroline in the front, with the vizor of 
her hat erect, and looking gloriously jolly and handsome. She 
had fetched my brother Orford from the next box, where he was 
enjoying himself with his petite partie, to help us to mince 



TO GEORGE MONTAGU. 217 

chickens. "We minced seven chickens into a china dish, which 
Lady Caroline stewed over a lamp, with three pats of butter and 
a flagon of water, stirring, and rattling, and laughing, and we 
expecting every minute to have the dish fly about our ears. 
She had brought Betty*, the fruit-girl, with hampers of 
strawberries and cherries from Rogers's, and made her wait 
upon us, and then made her sup by us at a little table. The 
conversation was no less lively than the whole transaction. 
There was a Mr. O'Brien, arrived from Ireland, who would 
get the duchess t of Manchester from Mr. Hussey, if she was 
still at liberty. I took up the biggest hautboy in the # dish, and 
said to Lady Caroline, " Madam, Miss Ashe desires you 
would eat this O'Brien strawberry." She replied immediately, 
" I won t, you hussey :" you may imagine the laugh which 
this reply occasioned. After the tempest was a little calmed, 
the Pollard said, " Now anybody would spoil this story that 
was to repeat it, and say, ' I won't, you jade.' " In short 
the whole air of the party was sufficient, as you will easily 
imagine, to take up the whole attention of the garden; so 
much so, that from eleven o'clock till half an hour after one, 
we had the whole concourse round our booth : at last they 
came into the little gardens of each booth on the sides of ours, 
till Harry Yane took up a bumper and drank their healths, 
and was proceeding to treat them with still greater freedom. 
It was three o'clock before we got home. I think I have told 
you the chief passages. Lord Granby's temper had been a little 
ruffled the night before : the prince had invited him and Dick 
LyttLeton to Kew, where he won eleven hundred pounds of 
the latter, and eight of the former ; then cut, and told them 

* Betty Neale, who for many years lived in St. James's-street, in a small 
house with a bow window, on the western side, afterwards occupied by Mar- 
tindale. It had not the appearance of a shop, but was exactly as it now is. 
It had been built by subscription for her, and was, in fact, the rendezvous of 
the opposition party, who met at her house every day. — Note to Correspon- 
dence, edition of 1837. 

t Isabella, Duchess of Manchester, married to Mr. Hussey. 



218 HORACE WALPOLE 

he would play with them no longer, for he saw they played 
so idly, that they were capable of losing more than they would 
like. Adieu ! I expect in return for this long tale, that you 
will tell me some of your frolics with llobin Cursemother, 
and some of Miss Marjoram's bon-mots. 



LETTER LVI. 

The same to the same. — The Funeral of George 
the Second. 
Arlington Street, November 13, 1760. 

Do you know I had the curiosity to go to the burying 
t'other night: I had never seen a royal funeral; nay, I 
walked as a rag of quality, which I found would be, and so 
it was, the easiest way of seeing it. It is absolutely a noble 
sight. The prince's chamber hung with purple, and a 
quantity of silver lamps, the cofhn under a canopy of purple 
velvet, and six vast chandeliers of silver on high stands, had 
a very good effect. The ambassador from Tripoli and his 
son were carried to see that chamber. The procession, 
through a line of foot-guards, every seventh man bearing a 
torch, the horse-guards lining the outside, their officers with 
drawn sabres and crape sashes on horseback, the drums 
muffled, the fifes, the bells tolling, and minute guns — all this 
was very solemn. But the charm was the entrance of the 
Abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in 
rich robes, the choir and almsmen bearing torches; the whole 
Abbey so illuminated, that one saw it to greater advantage 
than by day; the tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof, all 
appearing distinctly, and with the happiest chiaro scuro. 
There wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here 
and there, with priests saying mass for the repose of the 
defunct ; yet one would not complain of its not being catholic- 
enough. I had been in dread of being coupled with some 
boy of ten years old; but the heralds were not very accurate, 



TO GEORGE MONTAGU. 219 

and I walked with George Grenville, taller and older, to keep 
me in countenance. When we came to the chapel of Henry 
the Seventh, all solemnity and decorum ceased; no order 
was observed, people sat or stood where they could or would; 
the yeomen of the guard were crying out for help, oppressed 
by the immense weight of the coffin; the bishop read sadly, and 
blundered in the prayers ; the fine chapter, Man that is born 
of a woman, was chaunted, not read; and the anthem, besides 
being immeasurably tedious, w r ould have served as well for a 
nuptial. The real serious part, was the figure of the Duke of 
Cumberland, heightened by a thousand melancholy circum- 
stances. He had a dark -brown adonis, and a cloak of black 
cloth, with a train of five yards. Attending the funeral of a 
father could not be pleasant; his leg extremely bad, yet forced 
to stand upon it near two hours; his face bloated and distorted 
with his late paralytic stroke, which has affected, too, one of his 
eyes, and placed over the mouth of the vault, into which, in 
all probability, he must himself so soon descend; — think how 
unpleasant a situation. He bore it all with a firm and unaf- 
fected countenance. This grave scene was fully contrasted 
with the burlesque Duke of Newcastle. He fell into a fit of 
crying the moment he came into the chapel, and flung him- 
self back in a stall, the archbishop hovering over him with a 
smelling-bottle; but in two minutes his curiosity got the 
better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his 
glass, to spy who was or who was not there, spying with 
one hand, and mopping his eyes with the other. Then 
returned the fear of catching cold ; and the Duke of Cumber- 
land, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, 
and turning round, found it was the Duke of Newcastle 
standing upon his train, to avoid the chill of the marble. It 
was very theatric to look down into the vault where the 
coffin lay, attended by mourners with lights. Clavering, the 
groom of the bed-chamber, refused to sit up with the body, 
and was dismissed by the king's order. 



220 STERNE 

LETTER LVII. 

Sterne to Garrick. — Urging his Return to the Stage. 

Op Sterne's correspondence, a curious anecdote is related by 
one of Hannah More's sisters. " Mrs. Medalle (Sterne's daughter) 
sent to all the correspondents of her deceased father, begging the 
letters which he had written to them : among other wits, she 
sent to Wilkes with the same request. He sent for answer that, 
as there appeared nothing extraordinary in those he had received, 
he had burnt or lost them. On which the faithful editor of her 
father's works, sent back to say, that if Mr. Wilkes would be so 
good as to write a few letters in her father's style, it would do just 
as well, and she would insert them." We are not informed 
whether Wilkes complied with this singular request. Literature, 
however, has not suffered by the loss of so many of Sterne's letters. 
His epistolary style has all the faults, with very few of the excel- 
lencies, of his works ; it is full of theatrical starts of passion ; and 
even his expressions of sympathy and regard seem to be spoken in 
character. When this letter was written, Garrick was upon the 
continent, where he had been residing since the autumn of 1763! 
He returned to England in the April of 1765. Powell, to whom 
Sterne alludes, is described as " a young man from Sir Robert 
Ladbroke's counting-house in the city; with slender education, 
few means of study, not striking in his person, but possessing an 
ardent love for acting, and the faculty of strongly interesting the 
passions of the audience." Such was the fickleness of the popular 
taste, that the town, which had begun to weary of Garrick, 
thronged to see his successor. It ought, however, to be mentioned, 
that the youthful actor, in the height of his success, remembered 
and venerated his illustrious master. 



Bath, April 6, 1765. 
I scalp you ! my dear Garrick ! — my dear friend ! foul 
befal the man who hurts a hair of your head ! — and so full was 
I of that very sentiment, that my letter had not been put into 
the post-office ten minutes, before my heart smote me ; and 
I sent to recal it — but failed. You are sadly to blame, Shandy! 
for this, i^uoth I, leaning with my head on my hand, as I 



TO GARRICK. 221 

recriminated upon my false delicacy in the affair. Garrick's 
nerves, (if he has any left,) are as fine and delicately spun as 
thy own — his sentiments as honest and friendly; thou 
knowest, Shandy, that he loves thee — why wilt thou hazard 
him a moment's pain? Puppy! fool! coxcomb! jackass! 
&c. &c. ; and so I balanced the account to your favour, 
before I received it drawn up in your way. I say your way 
— for it is not stated so much to your honour and credit, as I 
had passed the account before; for it was a most lamented 
truth, that I never received one of the letters your friendship 
meant me, except whilst in Paris. O! how I congratulate 
you for the anxiety the world has, and continues to be under, 
for your return. Return — return to the few who love you, 
and the thousands who admire you. The moment you set 
your foot upon your stage — mark! I tell it you, by some 
magic, irresisted power, every fibre about your heart will 
vibrate afresh, and as strong and feelingly as ever. Nature, 
with , Glory at her back, will light up the torch within you ; 
and there is enough of it left, to heat and enlighten the 
world these many, many, many years. 

Heaven be praised! (I utter it from my soul) that your 
lady and Minerva, is in a condition to walk to Windsor- 
full rapturously will I lead the graceful pilgrim to the temple, 
where I will sacrifice with the purest incense to her ; but you 
may worship with me, or not, 'twill make no difference either 
in the truth or warmth of my devotion; still, (after all I have 
seen) I still maintain her peerless. 

Powell — -good heaven! give me some one with less smoke 
and more fire. There are, who, like the Pharisees, still think 
they shall be heard for much speaking. Come — come away, 
my dear Garrick, and teach us another lesson. 

Adieu ! — I love you dearly — and your lady better— not 
hobihorsically — but most sentimentally and affectionately— 
for I am yours, (that is, if you never say another word about 

) with all the sentiments of love and friendship you 

deserve from me. 



222 THE EARL OF CHATHAM 



LETTER LVIII. 



The Karl of Chatham to his Nephew; Thomas Pitt*. — 
How to conduct himself at Cambridge. — Religion 
the perfection and glory of human nature. 

It was in the Senate, as seen in Cowper's noble description, 

With all his country beaming in his face — ■ 

that Chatham appeared in the full splendour and majesty of his 
genius. Lord Chesterfield, one of his acutest and most accom- 
plished contemporaries, declared that the dignity of his action and 
countenance terrified his opponents ; and that even the arms of a 
Campbell and a Mansfield " fell from their hands, as they shrank 
under the ascendant which his genius gained over them." Sir 
Robert Walpole used to say to his friends, that he should be 
delighted " at any rate to muzzle that terrible cornet of horse." 
Mr. Pitt, on leaving the University, had entered the army as a 
cornet in the Blues, and in 1735 was returned to Parliament for 
the family borough of Old Sarum. The intellectual physiognomy 
of Chatham was of a severe and commanding order ; his genius 
was eminently practical ; and while no person ever surpassed him 
in the lofty aspirations and generous enthusiasm of patriotism, 
few have equalled him in their calm and Christian application. 
His private character shone with a lustre very different from the 
unhealthy glare of political fame. The recent publication of his 
Correspondence, presents him under an engaging aspect, and 
enables the reader to admire the husband and the father, not less 
than the statesman and the orator. 



My dear Nephew, Bath, Jan. 14, 1754. 

You will hardly have read over one very long letter 

from me, before you are troubled with a second. I intended 

to have writ soon, but I do it the sooner on account of your 

letter to your aunt, which she transmitted to me here. If 

* Thomas Pitt was the only son of Mr. Pitt's elder brother. He was 
born in 1737, was created Lord Camelford in 1783, and died at Florence, 
in 1793. 



TO HIS NEPHEW. 223 

anything, my dear boy, could have happened to raise you 
higher in my esteem, and to endear you more to me, it is the 
amiable abhorrence you feel for the scene of vice and folly 
(and of real misery and perdition, under the false notion of 
pleasure and spirit), which has opened to you at your college; 
and at the same time, the manly, brave, generous, and wise 
resolution and true spirit, with which you resisted and 
repulsed the first attempts upon a mind and heart, I thank 
God, infinitely too firm and noble, as well as too elegant and 
enlightened, to be in any danger of yielding to such con- 
temptible and wretched corruptions. You charm me with 
the description of Mr. Wheeler*; and while you say you could 
adore him, I could adore you for the natural, generous love of 
virtue, which speaks in all you feel, say, or do. As to your 
companions, let this be your rule. Cultivate the acquaint- 
ance with Mr. Wheeler, which you have so fortunately begun; 
and in general be sure to associate with men much older than 
yourself: scholars whenever you can; but always with men 
of decent and honourable lives. As their age and learning, 
superior both to your own, must necessarily, in good sense, 
and in the view of acquiring knowledge from them, entitle 
them to all deference, and submission of your own lights to 
theirs, you will particularly practise that first and greatest 
rule for pleasing in conversation, as well as for drawing 
instruction and improvement from the company of one's 
superiors in age and knowledge; namely, to be a patient, 
attentive, and well-bred hearer, and to answer with modesty; 
to deliver your own opinions sparingly, and with proper 
difiidence; and if you are forced to desire further information 
or explanation upon a point, to do it with proper apologies for 
the trouble you give : or, if obliged to differ, to do it with all 
possible candour, and an unprejudiced desire to find and 
ascertain truth, with an entire indifference to the side on which 

* Rev. John Wheeler, prebendary of Westminster; the friendship thus 
commenced, continued until the death of Lord Camelford. 



224 THE EARL OF CHATHAM 

that truth is to be found. There is likewise .a particular 
attention required to contradict with good manners; such as, 
"begging pardon," " begging leave to doubt," and such 
like phrases. Pythagoras enjoined his scholars an absolute 
silence for a long noviciate. I am far from approving such, a 
taciturnity: but I highly recommend the end and intent of 
Pythagoras's injunction, which is, to dedicate the first parts 
of life more to hear and learn, in order to collect materials, 
out of which to form opinions founded on proper lights, and 
well-examined sound principles, than to be presuming, 
prompt, and flippant in hazarding one's own slight crude 
notions of things, and thereby exposing the nakedness and 
emptiness of the mind, like a house opened to company before 
it is fitted either with necessaries, or any ornaments for their 
reception and entertainment. And not only will this dis- 
grace follow from such temerity and presumption, but a more 
serious danger is sure to ensue, that is, the embracing errors 
for truth, prejudices for principles : and when that is once done, 
(no matter how vainly and weakly), the adhering, perhaps, 
to false and dangerous notions, only because one has declared 
for them, and submitting for life, the understanding and 
conscience to a yoke of base and servile prejudices, vainly 
taken up and obstinately retained. This will never be your 
danger; but I thought it not amiss to offer these reflections 
to your thoughts. As to your manner of behaving towards 
these unhappy young gentlemen you describe, let it be manly 
and easy; decline their parties with civility; retort their 
raillery w T ith raillery, always tempered with good breeding : 
if they banter your regularity, order, decency, and love of 
study, banter in return their neglect of them : and venture to 
own frankly, that you came to Cambridge to learn what you 
can, not to follow what they are pleased to call pleasure. In 
short, let your external behaviour to them be as full of polite- 
ness and ease, as your inward estimation of them is full 
of pity, mixed with contempt. 



TO HIS NEPHEW. 225 

I come now to the part of the advice I have to offer to 
you, which most nearly concerns your welfare, and upon 
which every good and honourable purpose of your life will 
assuredly turn. I mean the keeping up in your heart the 
true sentiments of religion. If you are not right towards 
God, you can never be towards man : the noblest sentiment 
of the human breast is here brought to the test. Is gra- 
titude in the number of a man's virtues ? If it be, the highest 
Benefactor demands the warmest returns of gratitude, love, 
and praise. Tngratum qui dixerit, omnia dixit. If a man 
wants this virtue, where there are infinite obligations to 
excite and quicken it, he will be likely to want all others 
towards his fellow-creatures, whose utmost gifts are poor, 
compared to those he daily receives at the hands of his 
never-failing Almighty friend. " Remember thy Creator in 
the days of thy youth," is big with the deepest wisdom: 
— " The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: 
and att ujmght heart, that is understanding." This is 
eternally true, whether the wits and rakes of Cambridge 
allow it or not: nay, I must add of this religious wisdom, 
" Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are 
peace." Hold fast, therefore, by this sheet-anchor of hap- 
piness, religion; you will often want it in the times of 
most danger, the storms and tempests of life. Cherish true 
religion as preciously as you will fly, with abhorrence and 
contempt, superstition and enthusiasm. The first is the 
perfection and glory of the human nature; the two last, the 
depravation and disgrace of it. Remember, the essence of 
religion is, a heart void of offence towards God and man; 
not subtle speculative opinions, but an active vital principle 
of faith. The words of a heathen were so fine that I must 
give them to you : Compositum jus fasque animi, sanctosque 
recessus mentis, et incocium generoso pectus honesto. 

Go on, my dear child, in the admirable dispositions you 

K 



226 LORD CHESTERFIELD 

have towards all that is right and good, and make yourself 
the love and admiration of the world. I have neither paper 
nor words to tell you how tenderly I am yours. 



LETTER LIX. 



Lord Chesterfield to his Son. — How to form a Latin 
Style. — Unchangeableness of Truth. — Berkeley's 
Theory of Matter. — Letter -writing. 

If Virgil had selected Bavius to revise and complete the ^neid, 
or Milton had submitted the Paradise Lost to the censorship of 
"Waller, they would scarcely have exceeded the folly of Chester- 
field, in assigning to Mr. Harte the execution of that Code of 
Politeness which he had prepared with so much diligence. This 
gentleman, whom the most polished nobleman in England engaged 
to superintend the studies of his son, could neither speak nor write 
with elegance or ease, and was not less insensible to harmony 
of manners, than to harmony of sounds. His vanity equalled his 
pedantry. When his History of Gustavus Adolphus was on the 
eve of publication, he quitted London, to escape the anticipated 
congratulations of delighted criticism. 



London, September the 27th, O. S., 1748. 
Dear Boy, 

I have received your Latin Lecture upon War, which, 
though it is not exactly the same Latin that Caesar, Cicero, 
Horace, "Virgil, and Ovid spoke, is, however, as good Latin 
as the erudite Germans speak or write! I have always 
observed that the most learned people, that is, those who 
have read the most Latin, write the worst; and that distin- 
guishes the Latin of a gentleman scholar, from that of a 
pedant. A gentleman has probably read no other Latin than 
that of the Augustan age; and therefore can write no other; 
whereas the pedant has read much more bad Latin than 
good; and consequently writes so too. He looks upon the 



TO HIS SON. 227 

best classical books, as books for school-boys, and conse- 
quently below him; but pores over fragments of obscure 
authors, treasures up the obsolete words which he meets with 
there, and uses them upon all occasions, to show his reading, 
at the expense of his judgment. Plautus is his favourite 
author, not for the sake of the wit and the vis comica of his 
comedies, but upon account of the many obsolete words, and 
the cant of low characters, which are to be met with no 
where else. He will rather use olli than illi, optume than 
optime, and any bad word rather than any good one, provided 
he can but prove that, strictly speaking, it is Latin; that is, 
that it was written by a Roman. By this rule, I might 
now write to you in the language of Chaucer or Spenser, and 
assert that I wrote English, because it was English in those 
days; but I should be a most affected puppy if I did so, and 
you would not understand three words of my letter. All 
these, and such-like affected peculiarities, are the character- 
istics of learned coxcombs and pedants, and are carefully 
avoided by all men of sense. 

I dipped accidentally the other day into Pitiscus's preface 
to his Lexicon, where I found a word that puzzled me, and 
that I did not remember ever to have met with before. It 
is the adverb prsefiscine, which means, in a good hour; an 
expression, which, by the superstition of it, appears to be 
low and vulgar. I looked for it, and at last I found that it 
is once or twice made use of in Plautus; upon the strength 
of which this learned pedant thrusts it into his preface. 
"Whenever you write Latin, remember that every word or 
phrase which you make use of, but cannot find in Caesar, 
Cicero, Livy, Horace, Virgil, and Ovid, is bad, illiberal Latin, 
though it may have been written by a Roman. 

I must now say something as to the matter of the Lec- 
ture; in which, I confess, there is one doctrine laid down 
that surprises me: it is this; " Quum vero hostis sit lenta 
citave morte omnia dira nobis minitans quocunque bellantibus 

K 2 



228 



LORD CHESTERFIELD 



negotium est, parum sane interfuerit quo modo eum obruere 
et interficere satagamus si ferociam exuere cunctetur. Ergo 
veneno quoque uti fas est, &c. Whereas I cannot conceive 
that the use of poison can, upon any account, come within 
the lawful means of self-defence. Force may, without doubt, 
be justly repelled by force, but not by treachery and fraud ; 
for some call the stratagems of war, such as ambuscades, 
masked batteries, false attacks, &c, frauds or treachery; they 
are mutually to be expected and guarded against; but 
poisoned arrows, poisoned waters, or poison administered to 
your enemy (which can be only done by treachery) I have 
always heard, read, and thought to be unlawful and infamous 
means of defence, be your danger ever so great; but si ferociam 
exuere cunctetur; must I rather die than poison this enemy ? 
Yes, certainly ; much rather die than do a base or criminal 
action : nor can I be sure, before-hand, that this enemy may 
not, in the last moment, ferociam -exuere. But the Public 
Lawyers, now, seem to me, rather to warp the law, in order 
to authorise, than to check, those unlawful proceedings of 
Princes and States ; which, by being become common, appear 
less criminal; though custom can never alter the nature of 
good and ill. 

Pray let no quibbles of Lawyers, no refinements of 
Casuists, break into the plain notions of right and wrong, 
which every man's right reason and plain common sense 
suggest to him. To do as you would be done by, is the 
plain, sure, and undisputed rule of morality and justice. 
Stick to that ; and be convinced that whatever breaks into 
it, in any degree, however speciously it may be termed, 
and however puzzling it may be to answer it, is, notwith- 
standing, false in itself, unjust, and criminal. I do not 
know a crime in the world which is not, by the Casuists 
among the Jesuits (especially the twenty-four collected, I 
think, by Escobar), allowed in some, or many cases, not 
to be criminal. The principles first laid down by them are 



TO HIS SON. 229 

often specious, the reasonings plausible, but tlie conclusions 
always a lie ; for it is contrary to tliat evident and undeniable 
rule of justice, which I have mentioned above, of not doing to 
any one what you would not have him do to you. But, 
however, these refined pieces of casuistry and sophistry, 
being very convenient and welcome to people's passions and 
appetites, they gladly accept the indulgence, without desiring 
to detect the fallacy of the reasoning; and indeed, many, I 
might say most, people are not able to do it ; which makes 
the publication of such quibblings and refinements the more 
pernicious. I am no skilful casuist nor subtle disputant, and 
yet I would undertake to justify and qualify the profession of 
a highwayman, step by step, and so plausibly, as to make 
many ignorant people embrace the profession, as an innocent, 
if not even a laudable one; and to puzzle people of some 
degree of knowledge, to answer me point by point. I have 
seen a book intituled Qiddlibet ex Quolibet, or the Art of mak 
ing anything out of anything; which is not so difficult as it 
would seem, if once one quits certain plain truths, obvious in 
gross to every understanding, in order to run after the ingenious 
refinements of warm imaginations and speculative reasonings. 
Doctor Berkeley, bishop of Cloyne, a very worthy, ingenious, 
and learned man, has wrote a book to prove, that there is no 
such thing as matter, and that nothing exists but in idea; 
that you and I only fancy ourselves eating, drinking, and 
sleeping; you at Leipzig, and I at London : that we think 
we have flesh and blood, legs, arms, &c, but that we are only 
spirit. His arguments are, strictly speaking, unanswerable ; 
but yet I am so far from being convinced by them, that I am 
determined to go on to eat and drink, and walk and ride, in 
order to keep that 'matter, which I so mistakenly imagine my 
body at present to consist of, in as good plight as possible. 
Common sense (which, in truth, is very uncommon), is the 
best sense I know of; abide by it : it will counsel you best. 
Read and hear, for your amusement, ingenious systems, nice 



230 



LORD CHESTERFIELD 



questions, subtilly agitated, with all the refinements that 
warm imaginations suggest ; but consider them only as 
exercitations for the mind, and return always to settle with, 
common sense. 

I stumbled the other day, at a bookseller's, upon Comte de 
Gabalis, in two very little volumes, which I had formerly 
read. I read it over again, and with fresh astonishment. 
Most of the extravagancies are taken from the Jewish Rabbins, 
who broached those wild notions, and delivered them in the 
unintelligible jargon which the Cabalists and Rosicrucians 
deal in to this day. Their number is, I believe, much 
lessened, but there are still some ; and I myself have known 
two, who studied and firmly believed in that mystical non- 
sense. "What extravagancy is not man capable of entertain- 
ing, when once his shackled reason is led in triumph by fancy 
and prejudice! The ancient Alchymists gave very much 
into this stuff, by which they thought they should discover 
the Philosophers' Stone ; and some of the most celebrated 
empirics employed it in the pursuit of the Universal Medicine. 
Paracelsus, a bold empiric and wild cabalist, asserted that he 
had discovered it, and called it his Alkahest. Why, or 
wherefore, God knows ; only that those madmen call nothing 
by an intelligible name. You may easily get this book from 
the Hague : read it, for it will both divert and astonish you; 
and at the same time teach you Nil admirari, — a very neces- 
sary lesson. 

Your letters, except when upon a given subject, are ex- 
ceedingly laconic, and neither answer my desires, nor the 
purpose of letters; which should be familiar conversations 
between absent friends. As I desire to live with you upon 
the footing of an intimate friend, and not of a parent, I could 
wish that your letters gave me more particular accounts of 
yourself, and of your lesser transactions. "When you write to 
me, suppose yourself conversing freely with me, by the fire- 
side. In that case, you would naturally mention the inci- 



TO HIS SON. 231 

dents of the day ; as where you had been, whom you had 
seen, what you thought of them, &c. Do this in your 
letters : acquaint me sometimes with your studies, sometimes 
with your diversions ; tell me of any new persons and charac- 
ters that you meet with in company, and add your Own 
observations upon them ; in short, let me see more of you in 
your letters. How do you go on with Lord Pulteney ; and 
how does he go on at Leipzig ? Has he learning, has he 
parts, has he application ? Is he good or ill-natured ? In 
short, what is he ; at least, what do you think him ? You 
may tell me without reserve, for I promise you secrecy. 
You are now of an age, that I am desirous of beginning a 
confidential correspondence with you ; and, as I shall, on my 
part, write you very freely my opinion upon men and things, 
which I should often be very unwilling that anybody but 
you or Mr. Harte should see ; so, on your part, if you write 
me without reserve, you may depend upon my inviolable 
secrecy. If you have ever looked into the letters of Madame 
de Sevigne, to her daughter Madame de Grignan, you must 
have observed the ease, freedom, and friendship of that cor- 
respondence ; and yet I hope, and believe, that they did not 
love one another better than we do. Tell me what books 
you are now reading, either by way of study or amusement ; 
how you pass your evenings when at home, and where you 
pass them when abroad. I know you go sometimes to 
Madame Valentin's assembly. What do you there ; do you 
play, or sup, or is it only la belle conversation ? Do you mind 
your dancing, while your dancing-master is with you ? As 
you will be often under the necessity of dancing a minuet, I 
would have you dance it very well. Remember that the 
graceful motion of the arms, the giving your hand, and the 
putting on, and the pulling off your hat genteelly, are the 
material parts of a gentleman's dancing. But the greatest 
advantage of dancing well, is, that it necessarily teaches you 
to present yourself, to sit, stand, and walk genteelly; all of 
which are of real importance to a man of fashion. 



232 LORD CHESTERFIELD 

I should wish that you were polished, before you go to 
Berlin ; where, as you will be in a great deal of good com- 
pany, I would have you have the right manners for it. It is a 
very considerable article to have le ton de la bonne compagnie, 
in your destination particularly. The principal business of a 
foreign minister is, to get into the secrets, and to know all 
les allures of the Courts at which he resides; this he can 
never bring about, but by such a pleasing address, such 
engaging manners, and such an insinuating behaviour, as may 
make him sought for, and in some measure domestic, in the 
best company and the best families of the place. He will, 
then, indeed, be well informed of all that passes ; either by 
the confidences made him, or by the carelessness of people in 
his company: who are accustomed to look upon him as one 
of them, and consequently (are) not upon their guard before 
him. For a Minister, who only goes to the Court he resides 
at in form, to ask an audience of the Prince or the Minister, 
upon his last instructions, puts them upon their guard, and 
will never know anything more than what they have a mind 
that he should know. Here women may be put to some 
use. A King's mistress, or a Ministers wife or mistress, 
may give great and useful information ; and are Very apt to 
do it, being proud to show that they have been trusted. But 
then, in this case, the height of that sort of address which 
strikes women, is requisite ; I mean that easy politeness, 
graceful and genteel address, and that exterieur hrillant, which 
they cannot withstand. There is a sort of men so like women, 
that they are to be taken just in the same way, — I mean 
those who are commonly called fine men, who swarm at all 
Courts, — who have little reflection, and less knowledge ; but 
who, by their good-breeding and train-tran of the world, are 
admitted into all companies ; and, by the imprudence or care- 
lessness of their superiors, pick up secrets worth knowing, and 
easily got out of them by proper address. Adieu. 



to nis son. 233 



LETTER LX. 



To the Same. — Good-Breeding ; a Courtier 's Advice 
how to rise in the World. 

It is well known, that Mr. Stanhope never filled up the out- 
line of his father. Boswell, who met him when he was Envoy 
at Dresden, says, that without possessing the Graces, he was a 
decent, sensible, well-behaved person. 



London, November the 14th, O.S., 1749. 
Dear Boy, 

There is a natural good-breeding which occurs to every 
man of common sense, and is practised by every man of com- 
mon good-nature. This good- breeding is general, independent 
of modes ; and consists in endeavours to please, and oblige 
our fellow-creatures by all good offices, short of moral duties. 
This will be practised by a good-natured American savage, as 
essentially as by the best-bred European. But then, I do 
not take it to extend to the sacrifice of our own conveniences 
for the sake of other people's. Utility introduced this sort of 
good-breeding, as it introduced commerce ; and established a 
truck of the little agremsns and pleasures of life. I sacrifice 
such a conveniency to you, you sacrifice another to me ; this 
commerce circulates, and every individual finds his account 
in it upon the whole. The third sort of good r breeding is 
local, and is variously modified, in not only different countries, 
but in different towns of the same country. But it must be 
founded upon the two former sorts : they are the matter ; 
to which, in this case, Fashion and Custom only give the 
different shapes and impressions. Whoever has the two first 
sorts, will easily acquire this third sort of good-breeding, 
which depends singly upon attention and observation. It is 
properly the polish, the lustre, the last finishing stroke, of 
good-breeding. It is to be found only in capitals, and even 

K 3 



234 LORD CHESTERFIELD 

there it varies : the good-breeding of Rome differing, in some 
things, from that of Paris : that of Paris, in others, from 
that of Madrid ; and that of Madrid, in many things, from 
that of London. A man of sense, therefore, carefully attends 
to the local manners of the respective places where he is, and 
takes for his models those persons whom he observes to be at 
the head of the fashion and good-breeding. He watches how 
they address themselves to their superiors, how they accost 
their equals, and Jiow they treat their inferiors ; and lets 
none of those little niceties escape him, which are to good- 
breeding, what the last delicate and masterly touches are to a 
good picture ; and which the vulgar have no notion of, but 
by which good judges distinguish the master. He attends 
even to their air, dress, and motions, and imitates them 
liberally, and not servilely : he copies, but does not mimic. 
These personal Graces are of very great consequence. They 
anticipate the sentiments, before merit can engage the under- 
standing: and they captivate the heart, and gave rise, I believe, 
to the extravagant notions of Charms and Philtres. Their 
effects were so surprising, that they were reckoned supernatural. 
The most graceful and best-bred men, and the handsomest 
and genteelest women, give the most Philtres; and, as I 
verily believe, without the least assistance of the devil. Pray 
be not only well-dressed, but shining in your dress : let it 
have du brillant : I do not mean by a clumsy load of gold 
and silver, but by the taste and fashion of it. The women 
like and require it ; they think it an attention due to them ; 
but, on the other hand, if your motions and carriage are not 
graceful, genteel, and natural, your fine clothes will only 
display your awkwardness the more. But I am unwilling to 
suppose you still awkward ; for, surely, by this time, you 
must have catched a good air in good company. When you 
went from hence, you were not naturally awkward; but 
your awkwardness was adventitious and Westmonasterial. 
Leipzig, I apprehend, is not the seat of the Graces ; and I 



TO HIS SON. 

presume you acquired none there. But now, if you will be 
pleased to observe what people of the first fashion do with 
their legs and arms, heads and bodies, you will reduce yours 
to certain decent laws of motion. You danced pretty well 
here, and ought to dance very well before you come home ; 
for what one is obliged to do sometimes, one ought to be able 
to do well. Besides, la belle danse donne du brillant a un 
jeune homme. And you should endeavour to shine. A calm 
serenity, negative merit, and Graces, do not become your age. 
You should be alerte, adroit, mf ; be wanted, talked of, im- 
patiently expected, and unwillingly parted with in company. 
I should be glad to hear half a dozen women of fashion say, 
Oil est done le petit Stanhope? Que ne ment-il? Il/aut avouer 
qu'il est aimable. All this I do not mean singly with regard 
to women, as the principal object ; but with regard to men, 
and with a view of making yourself considerable. For, with 
very small variations, the same things that please women 
please, men; and a man, whose manners are softened and 
polished by women of fashion, and who is formed by them to 
an habitual attention and complaisance, will please, engage, 
and connect men, much easier and more than he would other- 
wise. You must be sensible that you cannot rise in the 
world, without forming connexions, and engaging different 
characters to conspire in your point. You must make them 
your dependants, without their knowing it, and dictate to 
them while you seem to be directed by them. Those neces- 
sary connexions can never be formed, or preserved, but by an 
uninterrupted series of complaisance, attentions, politeness, 
and some constraint. You must engage their hearts, if you 
would have their support; you must watch the mollia tempora, 
and captivate them by the agremens and charms of conver- 
sation. People will not be called out to your service, only 
when you want them ; and, if you expect to receive strength 
from them, they must receive either pleasure or advantage 
from you. 



236 LORD CHESTERFIELD TO HIS SON. 

I received, in this instant, a letter from Mr. Harte, of the 
2d, N.S., which I will answer soon; in the mean time I return 
him my thanks for it through you. The constant good 
accounts which he gives me of you, will make me suspect him 
of partiality, and think him le medecin tant mieux. Consider, 
therefore, what weight any future deposition of his against 
you, must necessarily have with me. As, in that case, he 
will be a very unwilling, he must consequently be a very 
important witness. Adieu. 



LETTER LXI. 

Lowth to Warburton. — A Vindication of his Conduct. 

No quarrel of authors ever awakened a livelier sensation in 
the republic of letters, than the controversy between Warburton 
and Lowth. It arose out of a very trifling circumstance. Lowth, 
in the Supplement to his JPreelectiones, had mentioned the punish- 
ment of idolatry under the patriarchal oeconomy, in the families, 
and under the sovereignty, of Abraham, Melchisedec, Job, and 
others. Warburton took offence at an opinion which he regarded 
as intentionally hostile to his own. His displeasure, however, 
apparently subsided before the temperate and dignified explanation 
of Lowth. But the fire only smouldered, and, in a new edition of 
The Divine Legation of Moses, the flame broke out with great 
violence. In reply to the accusations of his unexpected antagonist, 
Lowth produced that famous Letter, which will always occupy a 
prominent place in polemical literature. Gibbon commended the 
polish and poignancy of the style, and said that it obtained the 
victory even by "the silent confession of Warburton and his 
slaves." Lowth considered himself a master of the English lan- 
guage ; and he was entitled to think so. In this noble vindication 
he combined, with the earnest simplicity of Swift, a purity of sen- 
timent, and a propriety of expression, not always associated in the 
pages of the Dean of St. Patrick's. His striking attitudes of defi- 
ance, while they display the nervous proportions of his intellectual 
stature, rarely degenerate into contortions ; and, while he lashes his 
opponent with a giant's strength, he seems to do so from a giant's 



LOWTH TO WARBURTON. 237 

elevation. Throughout the Letter he wears the calm and graceful 
demeanour of conscious superiority, and appears, as Dryden said of 
Horace, to make his most " desperate passes with a smile." 

When the grave had closed upon Warburton, Lowth, and 
Jortin, and Hurd already lingered upon the verge of three-score 
years and ten, the recollection of their early contention was revived 
by the publication, in 1 789, of Tracts bj/ Warburton, and a War- 
burtonian; to which Dr. Parr prefixed a Dedication to Bishop 
Hurd, which a very sagacious and reflective critic, whose judg- 
ments upon books were the fruit of tranquil study, has numbered 
with Burke's Speech to the Electors of Bristol, and Johnson's Pre- 
face to Shakspeare. It is undoubtedly composed in a strain of 
lofty and impassioned declamation ; the invective is bitter ; and 
the portraits of Warburton and Hurd, of Leland and Jortin, are 
painted with great vigour of pencil, and great brilliancy of colour- 
ing. The parallel between Warburton and his friend is written 
with extraordinary power, acuteness, and injustice. " He blundered 
against grammar, and 3^011 refined against idiom. He, from defect 
of taste, contaminated English by Gallicism, and you, from excess 
of affectation, sometimes disgraced what would have risen to orna- 
mental and dignified writing, by a profuse mixture of vulgar or 
antiquated phraseology. He soared into sublimity without effort, 
and you, by effort, sunk into a kind of familiarity, which, without 
leading to perspicuity, borders upon meanness. He was great by 
the energies of nature, and you were little by the misapplication 
of art. He, to show his strength, piled up huge and rugged masses 
of learning, and you, to show your skill, split and shivered them 
into what your brother critic calls ^yiiara mi apaia>jj.aTa* . He 
sometimes reached the force of Longinus, but without his ele- 
gance, and you exhibited the intricacies of Aristotle, but without 
his exactness." 

The virulence of Parr's reproaches against Hurd is. not to be 
justified; but the reader's resentment may be mitigated by the 
remembrance, that he wrote under an imaginary sense of personal 
insult, and that gratitude for the patronage of Lowth, who had 
made him a prebendary of St. Paul's, naturally enrolled him 
among the opponents of Warburton. 

* Longinus, Sect. 10. 



238 LOWTH 

Dear Sir, Winchester, Sept. 9, 1756. 

Our good friends, Dr. C. and Mr. S., have, agreeably 
to your desire, communicated to me some particulars of the 
conversation, which you have lately had with them relating 
to me ; from which I collect, that you think you have reason 
to be offended with me on account of some things which I have 
said in my Prelections on the subject of the Book of Job, which 
you look upon as aimed against you ; and that you expect that 
I should explain myself on this head. I am much obliged to 
you for the regard which you have been pleased to express 
for me, and for your candid and generous manner of dealing 
with me on this occasion ; and I shall endeavour to return it 
by dealing as fairly and as openly with you. 

The reasons for my treating of the Book of Job in the 
manner which I have done, lest they should be mistaken, I 
have there given ; and, that I might not give offence, have 
prefaced those Lectures with an Apology, which was perhaps 
unnecessary. Having examined and considered the subject 
as well as I was able, I found myself obliged to differ in 
opinion from several writers of great authority in the republic 
of letters ; such as Grotius, Le Clerc, Bishop Hare, yourself, 
and many others : it was not my business, and much less was 
it my desire, to enter into a formal dispute with any one ; all 
I had to do was to declare in a few words my own sentiments, 
and to explain my hypothesis, so far as to make myself under- 
stood when I came to treat of the subject which it was abso- 
lutely necessary for me to treat of, as being a principal and 
essential part of my plan. I thought the Book of Job the 
most ancient extant, that it had no relation to the affairs of 
the Israelites, that it was neither allegorical, nor properly 
dramatic ; in all which I disagreed not only with you, but 
with one, or other, or all, of the authors above mentioned, and' 
a hundred others, whom I need not name to you now, nor 
was it at all more necessary for me to name them then. You 



TO WARBURTON. 239 

seem to think I ought to have quoted you, or referred to your 
book ; and a friend of yours charges me with writing against 
you, and being afraid of you. Your friend is mistaken in 
both these particulars, and the ground of your complaint I 
cannot possibly comprehend. Why should I single out you, 
and attack you for opinions, which were common to you with 
twenty other authors of note ? would this have been a mark 
of respect to you ? would it not rather have argued a busy 
and litigious spirit in me ? There were several living writers, 
of great learning and eminence, who stood just in the same 
situation with regard to me, that you did. "What should I 
have done ? Should I have agreed with you all ? That was 
impossible. Should I have complimented you all, or should 
I have contended with you all? To have done either would 
have been equally unnecessary and impertinent. I have 
never heard that any of those gentlemen were angry with 
me, for acting with respect to them just in the same manner 
as I have done with respect to you. 

But you, too, it seems, think that I have written against 
you; that is, that I have aimed at you in particular, and 
attacked opinions that are peculiarly yours. I have upon 
this occasion taken a review of your Dissertation, and of my 
own Lectures, and cannot find upon what it is that you 
ground this charge. I have marked the passages in the latter 
which seem most likely to have given you umbrage, and beg 
you would give yourself the trouble to turn to them, p. 312. 
Nunqumn in dubium, fyc. This cannot possibly be understood 
of you, being plainly restrained to those who conclude, that 
if the poem be parabolical, therefore the story is fictitious ; 
the absurdity of which you yourself expose. In p. 319, I 
refer to the dispute on the text supposed to relate to the 
Resurrection ; to the bishop of London, Dr. Hodges, &c. . I 
believe I had not you then in my thoughts; however, if I 
had, I see nothing that should offend you or any one. Page 
320, observe, that I speak of the opinion, that the Poem is 



240 LOWTH 

dramatic, as what has for some time almost universally pre- 
vailed among the learned. Besides, I do not see how the 
question whether the Poem be strictly dramatic or not, at all 
affects your main argument. So that Discourse upon the 
whole cannot be supposed to be directed against you. In 
the next page I point out more particularly the authors whom 
I have in view, by using their own expressions, loguuntur 
enim, &c. To give you full satisfaction here, and at the 
same time to save you and myself the trouble of a multitude 
of references, I beg leave to refer you only to two short pas- 
sages in Bishop Hare's note at the end of the 1 07th Psalm ; 
and Calmet's Preface to Job, about the middle ; the passage 
begins with, Mais sans niei% S?c, where you will find enough 
to account for everything I have there said, and even for 
every expression which I have used. If there are any other 
passages which offend you as meant of you particularly, I 
assure you most sincerely that they have escaped my notice : 
be so good as to point them out to me, and I will endeavour 
to give you further satisfaction. Upon the whole, I did not 
mean to offend ; neither do I think I have given any cause of 
offence. The subject lay at least as much in my way as it did in 
yours : I had as good a right to pursue my subject, and to 
deliver my sentiments with freedom, as you had. I could 
not have spoken upon it at all without dissenting from you 
in conjunction with many others, and I don't know how I 
could have signified my dissent more inoffensively. I cannot 
have misrepresented your particular notions, for I never 
intended to represent them at all, nor had I anything to do 
with them. Nay, as far as I can recollect, I verily believe, 
that at the time I wrote those Lectures, I had not your book 
before me; so far was it from my intention to cavil at your 
Dissertation. In a word, my Lectures, and every expression 
in them, might have stood just as they do now, though your 
Dissertation on Job had never been written. 

I beg the continuance of that regard and esteem, which 



TO WARBURTON. 241 

you have been so kind as to express towards me ; I will not 
now tell you how highly I shall prize it; your friend above 
mentioned, the author of the Dissertation on the Delicacy of 
Friendship*, has stopped my mouth, and makes me very 
cautious of saying anything that may be construed into 
flattery or fear of you. I call him your friend, because I 
suppose he pretends to be so : what your opinion of him is, I 
cannot tell : but I think you owe him little thanks for his 
pains. He has at least shown more zeal than discretion in 
the undertaking, and more malevolent wit, than good sense or 
honest intention in the performance; the manifest tendency of 
which is to sow strife, and to foment discord ; and its natural 
effect, if it has any, must be to lessen the number of those 
who wish well to you and your designs ; and I say so much 
of it in order to assure you that it will not have that effect 
with me. 

As to my opinions, if they stand at all in your way, and 
if you should think them worthy of your notice, I ask not 
your favour for them; you will treat them as you shall think 
your own cause, and the cause of truth, requires. I do not 
as yet see any reason to depart from them ; but am not so 
fond of them as to be inclined to enter into a dispute with 
any one in defence of them. I shall be offended with no 
man merely for differing from me in sentiment upon any 
subject, much less upon points so very doubtful, and upon 
which no two persons, out of all that examine aud judge for 
themselves, either ever have agreed, or probably ever will 
perfectly agree. As to the manner in which you shall treat 
of them, I leave it entirely to your own consideration ; I 
shall be very little concerned about it. If you use me other- 
wise than I deserve, your own character will suffer, and not 

* The Delicacy of Frieridship, a Seventh Dissertation; addressed to 
the Author of the Fifth, printed 1755, and supposed to have been written by 
Hurd. It was an attack upon Jortin, who had previously published " Six 
Dissertations on Different Subjects," which kindled against him the wrath of 
Warburton. 



242 BEATTIE 

mine. Lay aside all regard to me upon this occasion ; but 
respect Yourself and the Public. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

It. L. 



LETTER LXII. 



Beattie to the Hon. Charles Boyd. — His own 
Character delineated. — Pope. 

No person has written of Beattie with a sincerer interest, or with 
a fresher glow of sympathy, than Cowper. In a letter to his friend 
Mr. Unwin, he says, " Beattie, the most agreeable and amiable man 
I ever met with ; the only author I have seen, whose critical and 
philosophical researches are diversified and embellished by a 
poetical imagination that makes even the driest subjects and the 
leanest a feast for an epicure in books. He is so much at his ease, 
too, that his character appears in every page; and, which is very 
rare, we see, not only the writer, but the man ; and that man so 
gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in his religion, and so humane 
in his philosophy, that it is necessary to love him, if one has any 
sense of what is lovely." This is, indeed, a very beautiful portrait, 
which could have been painted only by one of similar taste and 
disposition. He who delights in the Task, will be equally attached 
to the Minstrel; for both poems speak to the heart, and all its 
tenderest affections. Cowper, musing along the lanes of Weston, 
might well recall the young enthusiast sitting among the tombs 
of Laurence-kirk, or waiting upon the uplands for the dawn of 
day. The exquisite picture which Beattie gives of himself in the 
Minstrel, has all the life and beauty of Cowper — 
And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, 
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, 
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn ; 
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 

And villager abroad at early toil. 

But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. 



TO BOYD. 243 

The Minstrel was the favourite companion, in his walks, of 
Wilberforce, when a child ; and Southey has noticed the affection 
existing for Beattie, among a certain class, and during a certain 
period of life ; that class, he says, a high one ; and that stage, 
perhaps, the most delightful in their pilgrimage. 

Mr. Boyd, (we are informed by Sir William Forbes,) the 
second son of the unfortunate Earl of Kilmarnock, was a very 
accomplished scholar, possessing considerable humour, and writing 
verses with facility. His friendship and correspondence with 
Beattie continued till his death, in the August of 1782. 



Aberdeen, 19th November, 1766. 
Of all the chagrins with which my present infirm state of 
liealth is attended, none afflicts me more than my inability to 
perform the duties of friendship. The offer which you were 
generously pleased to make me of your correspondence, 
flatters me extremely; but, alas ! I have not as yet been able 
to avail myself of it. "While the good weather continued, 
I strolled about the country, and made many strenuous 
attempts to run away from this odious giddiness ; but the 
more I struggled, the more closely it seemed to stick by me. 
About a fortnight ago the hurry of my winter business 
began; and, at the same time, my malady recurred with 
more violence than ever, rendering me at once incapable of 
reading, writing, and thinking. Luckily, I am now a little 
better, so as to be able to read a page, and write a sentence 
or two, without stopping, which, I assure you, is a very 
great matter. My hopes and my spirits begin to revive once 
more. I flatter myself I shall even get rid of this infirmity ; 
nay, that I shall ere long be in the way of becoming a great 
man. For, have I not head-aches like Pope ? vertigo, like 
Swift? gray hairs, like Homer? Do I not wear large shoes, 
(for fear of corns,) like Virgil? and sometimes complain of 
sore eyes, (though not of lippitude,) like Horace? Am I not 
at this present writing, invested with a garment not less 



244 BEATTIE 

ragged than that of Socrates? Like Joseph, the patriarch, I 
am a mighty dreamer of dreams; like Nimrod the hunter, I 
am an eminent builder of castles (in the air). I procrasti- 
nate, like Julius Caesar; and very lately, in imitation of Don 
Quixote, I rode a horse, lean, old, and lazy, like Rozinante. 
Sometimes, like Cicero, I write bad verses; and sometimes 
bad prose, like Yirgil. This last instance I have on the 
authority of Seneca. I am of small stature, like Alexander 
the Great : I am somewhat inclinable to fatness, like Dr. 
Arbuthnot and Aristotle; and I drink brandy and water, 
like Mr. "Boyd. I might compare myself, in relation to many 
other infirmities, to many other great men; but if Fortune is 
not influenced in my favour, by the particulars already 
enumerated, I shall despair of ever recommending myself to 
her good graces. I once had some thought of soliciting her 
patronage on the score of my resembling great men in their 
good qualities ; but I had so little to say on that subject, 
that I could not for my life furnish matter for one well- 
rounded period; and, you know, a short ill-turned speech is 
very improper to be used in an address to a female deity. 

Do not you think there is a sort of antipathy between 
philosophical and poetical genius ? I question whether any 
one person was ever eminent for both. Lucretius lays aside 
the poet when he assumes the philosopher, and the philoso- 
pher when he assumes the poet. In the one character he is 
truly excellent, in the other he is absolutely nonsensical. 
Hobbes was a tolerable metaphysician, but his poetry is the 
worst that ever was. Pope's Essay on Man, is the finest 
philosophical poem in the world ; but it seems to me to do 
more honour to the imagination than to the understanding of 
its author : I mean, its sentiments are noble and affecting, its 
images and allusions apposite, beautiful, and new; its wit 
transcendently excellent ; but the scientific part of it is very 
exceptionable. Whatever Pope borrows from Leibnitz, like 
most other metaphysical theories, is frivolous and unsatis- 



TO BOYD. 245 

fying ; what Pope gives us of his own, is energetic, irresisti- 
ble, and divine. The incompatibility of philosophical and 
poetical genius is, I think, no unaccountable thing. Poetry 
exhibits the general qualities of a species; philosophy, the 
particular qualities of individuals. This forms its cod elusions 
from a painful and minute examination of single instances; 
that decides instantaneously, either from its own instinctive 
sagacity, or from a singular and unaccountable penetration, 
which at one glance sees all the instances where the philo- 
sopher must leisurely and progressively scrutinize, one by 
one. This persuades you gradually, and by detail ; the other 
overpowers you in an instant by a single effort. Observe the 
effect of argumentation in poetry; we have too many instances 
of it in Milton; it transforms the noblest thoughts into 
drawling inferences, and the most beautiful language into 
prose : it checks the tide of passion, by giving the mind a 
different employment in the comparison of ideas. A little 
philosophical acquaintance with the most beautiful parts of 
nature, both in the material and immaterial system, is of use 
to a poet, and gives grace and solidity to poetry, as may be 
seen in the Georgics, the Seasons, and the Pleasures of Ima- 
gination : but this acquaintance, if it is anything more than 
superficial, will do a poet rather harm than good; and 
will give his mind that turn for minute observation, which 
enfeebles the fancy, by restraining it, and counteracts the 
native energy of judgment, by rendering it fearful and sus- 
picious. 



246 



LETTER LXIII. 

Hannah More to Mrs. Gwatkin. — Picture of Hampton 
Court. — Pope's Villa at Twickenham. — Garrictfs 
House. 

Hannah More visited London, accompanied by two of her 
sisters, in 1773 or 4, and was soon after introduced to Mr. and Mrs. 
Garrick. She remained in London about six weeks. Mrs. Gwatkin 
resided near Bristol, and is described as one of Miss More's earliest 
and firmest friends. The letter is without a date. 



My dear Madam, Hampton Court. 

At length I have the pleasure of being well enough to 
be suffered to gratify my inclination to pay a visit to this 
most charming and delightful place. I have been here these 
three days, but till this morning could not venture to visit the 
palace, which, to a weak person, is a very great undertaking, 
and I cannot but felicitate myself upon having accomplished 
it without the least fatigue. I think, madam, I have heard 
you say you have never seen this palace; but I hope, if you 
come to town in the spring, as you sometimes promise, your 
curiosity will excite you to it. It is the second sight (the 
museum was the first,) that ever, with me, more than satisfied 
a raised expectation. 

This immense edifice is rather like a town than a palace, 
and I would not pretend to venture out of the apartment we 
are in without a clue of thread in my hand to bring me back 
by. The private apartments are almost all full; they are all 
occupied by people of fashion, mostly of quality ; and it is 
astonishing to me that people of large fortune will solicit for 
them. Mr. Lowndes has apartments next to these, notwith- 
standing he has an estate of 4.0001. a-year. In the opposite 
one lives Lady Augusta Fitzroy. You know she is the 
mother of the duke of Grafton. 



HANNAH MORE TO MRS. GWATKIN. 247 

I must now say a word about the place I am in. My 
extreme ignorance does not permit me to judge of this magni- 
ficent building according to the rules of architecture or taste. 
Yet that cannot destroy the pleasure I receive in viewing it. 
I need not tell you, my dear madam, that it was built by the 
ambitious "Wolsey, not for a royal palace, but for his own use; 
and is a striking monument of his presumption, luxury, and 
riches. The grand state apartments are all that they show ; 
and these are six-and-twenty in number, and for magnificence 
of every kind, are, indeed, admirable. I except the furni- 
ture, which the iron tooth of time has almost totally destroyed. 
This brings to my mind the fable of iEsop, where the old 
woman, smelling to the lees of the brandy-cask, cries out, 
" Ah ! dear soul ! if you are so good now that it is almost 
over with you, what must you have been when you were in 
perfection ?" It is a false report that this place was stripped 
of the fine paintings to adorn Buckingham House, as there 
were none removed but seven of the cartoons ; six of these 
glorious pieces having been burnt. What shall I say of these 
paintings ? I was never more at a loss. A connoisseur would 
be confounded at their number and beauty ; what, then, can 
I do, who scarcely know blue from green, or red from yellow? 
I will only say, that they are astonishingly beautiful ; they 
are the originals of the greatest master of the Italian School, 
and, consequently, of the whole world. The staircase is 
superb, light, and modern, richly ornamented with the finest 
paintings, I should have continued to think, if I had not seen 
finer afterwards. The Muses, and Apollo, gods, devils, and 
harpies, (I forget by what hand,) ten thousand pieces, I 
believe, in different rooms, by Vandyke, Lely, Rubens, 
Guido, Baptiste, Rousseau, Kneller, and every other name 
that does honour to this divine science. In the grand council- 
chamber, nothing can surpass the ceiling; yet something can, 
too, — King William's writing- closet is prettier. It is Endy- 



248 HANNAH MORE 

mion and the moon; so sweet the attitudes — so soft the 
colouring — such inimitable graces ! 

I do not know a more respectable sight than a room con- 
taining fourteen admirals, all by Sir Godfrey. Below stairs, 
is what they call the beauty-room ; this is entirely filled with 
the beauties of King William's time, his queen at the head, 
who makes a very considerable figure among them, and must 
have been very handsome : but no encomiums can do justice 
to the labours of this industrious princess ; her tapestry and 
other works being some of the finest ornaments here. The 
other tapestry is immensely rich, the ground gold ; but what 
surpass everything of this kind, are two rooms hung, the 
one with historical pieces of the battles and victories of Alex- 
ander, the other with those of Julius Caesar. The celebrated 
cynic, and his no-less celebrated tub, is worthy of the highest 
admiration. The contempt and scorn that animate his coun- 
tenance, in addressing himself to the victorious Macedonian, 
delighted me extremely. You have the character of Clytus 
in the lines of his face. These famous pieces of tapestry were 
done at Brussels, from the paintings of Le Brun at Versailles- 
Another room, and what is esteemed one of the finest, is hung 
round with the defeat of the Spanish armada, with an inimit- 
able piece of Lord Effingham Howard, then lord-high-admiral. 
It would be endless to aim at recounting the numberless 
curiosities with which the palace abounds ; but I must not 
omit mentioning an ordinary room, full of the original furni- 
ture of the cardinal. It is curious chiefly for its antiquity, 
consisting of cane tables, chairs, &c. I have not yet seen the 
play-house, chapel, and gardens. Every day this week is 
destined to pleasure, of which I shall plague you with an 
account in the next sheet. This day, had we been in town, 
we should have had tickets for the birth-night ; but you will 
believe I did not much regard that loss, when I tell you I 
have visited the mansion of the tuneful Alexander : I have 



TO MRS. GWATKIN. 249 

rambled through the immortal shades of Twickenham : I have 
trodden the haunts of the swan of Thames. You know, my 
dear madam, what an enthusiastic ardour I have ever had to 
see this almost sacred spot, and how many times I have 
created to myself an imaginary Thames ; but, enthusiasm 
apart, there is very little merit in the grotto, house, or 
gardens, but that they once belonged to one of the greatest 
poets on earth. The house must have been originally very 
small; but Sir "William Stanhope, who has bought it, has 
added two considerable wings, so that it is now a very good 
residence. The furniture is only genteel, — all light linen,-— < 
not a picture to be seen ; and I was sorry to see a library con- 
temptibly small, with only French and English authors, in 
the house where Pope had lived. The grotto is very large, 
very little ornamented, with but little spar or glittering 
stones. You know, madam, the garden is washed by the 
Thames, -without any enclosure : it is beautiful. This noble 
current was frozen quite over ; the reason, I suppose, we saw 
no naiades : every hamadryad was also congealed in its parent 
tree. I could not be honest, for the life of me : from the 
grotto I stole two bits of stone, from the garden a sprig of 
laurel, and from one of the bed-chambers a pen : because the 
house had been Pope's, and because Sir William, whose pen 
it was, was brother to Lord Chesterfield. As our obliging 
friend will not let us pass over anything that is w^orth seeing, 
we went to Lord Radnor's, now Mrs. Henley's. This is within 
a hundred yards of Mr. Pope's ; consequently the situation, 
the water, and the gardens, are much the same. It is fitted 
up in a whimsical taste : there is a pretty picture-gallery, — 
the pieces mostly Dutch; the apartments are small, and rather 
oddly than magnificently furnished. I believe there is no 
such thing as a large room in this part of the world, except in 
this palace : a room the size of one of your parlours would be 
accounted a wonder. You will easily believe, madam, that I 
could not leave Twickenham without paying a visit to the 

L 



250 HANNAH MORE 

hallowed tomb of my beloved bard. For this purpose I went 
to the church, and easily found out the monument of one 
who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey. The 
inscription, I am afraid, is a little ostentatious; yet I admire 
it, as I do the epitaph, which I will not transcribe, as I am 
sure it is as fresh in your memory as in mine. I imagine the 
same motive induced him to be interred here which made 
Cassar say, he " had rather be the first man in a village than 
the second at Rome :" Pope, I suppose, had rather be the 
first ghost at Twickenham than an inferior one at West- 
minster Abbey. I need not describe the monument to you, 
as you have seen it as well as his father's. 
This day I have been to see 

Esher's groves, and Claremont's terraced heights, 

As the sweet poet of the Seasons calls them. I need not tell 
you, madam, that this famous Claremont is the seat of the 
Duke of Newcastle ; but, alas ! this is an unpropitious season 
for parks, gardens, and wildernesses. You have undoubtedly 
seen Claremont, so I shall not describe it : it commands 
thirty miles prospect, St. Paul's among the rest. The park 
is vast, and I like it better than Bushy-park, of which 
Lord Halifax is ranger: it is almost close to Hampton- 
park, not quite twenty miles from London. On our return, 
we went to see Mr. Garrick's; his house is repairing 
and is not worth seeing, but the situation of his garden 
pleases me infinitely : it is on the banks of the Thames, — the 
temple about thirty or forty yards from it. There is the 
famous chair, curiously wrought out of a cherry-tree, which 
really grew in the garden of Shakspeare, at Stratford : I sat 
in it, but caught no ray of inspiration. But what drew and 
deserved my attention was, a noble statue of this most 
original man, in an attitude strikingly pensive; his limbs 
strongly muscular, his countenance expressive of some vast 
conception, and his whole form seeming the bigger from some 



TO MRS. GWATKIN. 251 

immense idea with which you suppose his great imagination 
pregnant. This statue cost five hundred pounds. 
Adieu, my dear Madam, 

"With grateful respects, 

H. More. 



LETTER LXIV. 



Miss Sally More to the Family at Home. — A Visit to 
Dr. Johnson. 

" If there be any persons remaining," says Mr. Roberts, " who 
were in habits of social intercourse with the family of Mrs. H. 
More, they will readily bear testimony to the originality of hu- 
mour and playfulness of imagination which enlivened the conver- 
sation and letters of this lady, Miss Sally More, who possessed also 
talents of another kind ; some of the most valuable of the cheap 
repository tracts being the productions of her pen." Hannah 
More's first introduction to the Doctor was exceedingly auspicious ; 
having been prepared by Sir Joshua Reynolds, at whose house the 
interview took place, to expect a silent reception, she was delighted, 
upon entering the room, to see Johnson advance towards her with 
good humour in his countenance, Sir Joshua's macaw on his hand, 
and a verse, from one of her own poems, upon his lips. 



London, 1774. 
We have paid another visit to Miss Reynolds. She has 
sent Dr. Percy, (Percy's Collection, — now you know him,) 
who is quite a sprightly modern, instead of a rusty antique, 
as I expected. He was no sooner gone, than the most 
amiable and delightful of women, (Miss Reynolds,) ordered 
the coach to take us to Dr. Johnson's very own house; — yes, 
Abyssinia's Johnson ! Dictionary Johnson! Rambler's, Idler's, 
and Irene's Johnson ! Can you picture to yourself the palpi- 
tation of our hearts as we approached his mansion? The 
conversation turned upon a new work of his, just going to the 

L2 



252 MISS SALLY MORE TO THE FAMILY AT HOME. 

press, {The Tour to the Hebrides,) and his old friend Richard- 
son. Mrs. Williams, the blind poet, who lives with him, was 
introduced to us. She is engaging in her manners ; her con- 
versation lively and entertaining. Miss Reynolds told the 
doctor of all our rapturous exclamations on the road. He 
shook his scientific head at Hannah, and said, "She was 
a silly thing." When our visit was ended, he called for his 
hat, (as it rained,) to attend us down a very long entry 
to our coach, and not Rasselas could have acquitted him- 
self more en cavalier. We are engaged with him at Sir 
Joshua's, Wednesday evening — what do you think of us ? I 
forgot to mention that, not finding Johnson in his little par- 
lour, when we came in, Hannah seated herself in his great 
chair, hoping to catch a little ray of his genius ; when he 
heard it, he laughed heartily, and told her, it was a chair in 
which he never sat. He said, it reminded him of Boswell 
and himself, when they stopped a night at the spot, (as they 
imagined,) where the Weird Sisters appeared to Macbeth : 
the idea so worked upon their enthusiasm, that it quite 
deprived them of rest; however, they learned the next morn- 
ing, to their mortification, that they had been deceived, and 
were quite in another part of the country. 



LETTER LXV. 

Hannah More to her Sister. — Lord Spencers Seat at 
Wimbledon. — Anecdote of Lord Cobham. 

Returning from Bristol, in the December of 1779, Hannah 
More took up her abode with Mrs. Garrick, at Hampton. Their 
mode of life she has very agreeably described, — " Hampton is very 
clean, very green, very beautiful, and very melancholy ; but the 
'long dear calm of fixed repose' suits me mightily, after the hurry 
of London. We have been on the wing every day this week ; our 
way is to walk out four or five miles, to some of the prettiest 



HANNAH MORE TO HER SISTER. 253 

villages, or prospects, and when we are quite tired, we get into the 
coach, which is waiting for us, with our books, and we come home 
to dinner as hungry as Dragon himself." 



London, 1780. 

My being obliged to walk so much, makes me lose seeing 
my friends who call upon me ; and, what is worse, it makes 
me lose my time, which will never call on me again. Yester- 
day I spent a very agreeable day in the country. The Bishop 
of St. Asaph and his family invited me to come to TVimbledon- 
Park, Lord Spencer's charming villa, which he always lends 
to the bishop at this time of the year. I did not think there 
could have been so beautiful a place within seven miles of 
London. The park has as much variety of ground, and is as 
un-Londonish as if it w^ere an hundred miles off; and I 
enjoyed the violets, and the birds, more than all the marechal 
powder of this foolish town. There was a good deal of com- 
pany at dinner, but we were quite at our ease, and strolled 
about, or sat in the library, just as we liked. This last 
amused me much, for it was the Duchess of Marlborough's, 
(old Sarah,) and numbers of the books were presents to her 
from all the great authors of her time, whose names she had 
carefully written in the blank leaves ; for I believe she had 
the pride of being thought learned, as well as rich and beau- 
tiful. I drank tea one day last week with our bishop, 
(Newton,) whom I never thought to see again on this side 
heaven; he has gone through enough to kill half the stout 
young men, and seems to be patched up again for a few 
months. They are superabundantly kind to me. 

The gentlemen of the museum came on Saturday to fetch 
poor Mr. Garrick's legacy, of the old plays and curious black- 
letter books. Though they were not things to be read, and 
are only valuable to antiquaries for their age and scarcity, yet 
I could not see them carried off without a pang. I was the 
other night at Mrs. Ord's. Everybody was there; and in 



254 HANNAH MORE TO HER SISTER. 

such a crowd, I thought myself well off to be wedged in with 
Mr. Smelt, Langton, Ramsay, and Johnson. Johnson told 
me he had been with the king that morning, who enjoined 
him to add Spenser to the Lives of the Poets. I seconded the 
motion : he promised to think of it, but said the booksellers 
had not included him in their list of the poets. I dined at 
Mrs. Boscawen's the other day, very pleasantly ; for Berenger * 
was there, and was all himself, all chivalry, and blank verse, 
and anecdote. He told me some curious stories of Pope, 
with whom he used to spend the summer at his uncle's, Lord 
Cobham, of whom Pope asserts, you know, that he would 
feel " the ruling passion strong in death," and that " save my 
country, Heaven t," would be his last words. But what 
shows that Pope was not so good a prophet as a poet, (though 
the ancients sometimes express both by the same word,) was, 
that in his last moments, not being able to carry a glass of 
jelly to his mouth, he was in such a passion, feeling his own 
weakness, that he threw jelly, glass, and all, into Lady Chat- 
ham's face, and expired ! 

Instead of going to Audley-street, where I was invited, I 
^went to Mr. Reynold's, and sat for my picture. Just as he 
began to paint, in came Dr. Johnson, and staid the whole 
time, and said good things, by way of making me look well. 
I did not forget to ask him for a page for your memorandum- 
book, and he promised to write, but said you ought to be con- 
tented with a quotation; this, however, I told him you would 
not accept. 

* Miss More says that this gentleman was everybody's favourite, even 
Dr. Johnson's. He was equerry to George III. 

f And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath, 
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death : 
Such in those moments as in all the past ; 
" Oh, save my country, Heaven!" shall be your last.' 

Moral Essays, Ep. 1. 
Warton observes, in a note upon this passage, that the expression " Ruling 
Passion" was first employed by Roscommon. 



255 



LETTER LXVI. 

Hannah More to her Sister. — The Author of Leonidas 
and Lord Littelton. — Horace Walpole, 

When Cowper contributed an elaborate criticism upon the 
Athenaid to the Analytical Review, he rendered due justice to the 
talents and taste of Glover. " There are in it," he said, " many 
strokes of genius, and many passages so well written, that they 
were hardly susceptible of much improvement. In short, with all 
its defects, which are for the most part such as the author would 
probably have amended, had he lived to revise it, we may venture 
to pronounce it the work of a man of considerable poetical merit, 
and of much classical information." Cowper, when he wrote these 
lines, had already obtained for himself a name among the most 
popular poets of his country. Several passages were introduced into 
the' review, but he particularly commended the following descrip- 
tion of the temple of Neptune, and of its situation in the island 
of Tzense, as being picturesque and pleasing. 

The heroes land, where, opening to their sight, 

An elevation of the ground, attired 

In flower-enamelled turf, displayed the fane 

Of structure vast in marble ; brass the gates 

Refulgence cast : a peristyle sustained 

The massy roof; huge columns on their heads 

The crisped foliage of acanthus bore, 

And high o'erlook'd th' impenetrable shade 

Which screen' d the island round. Perennial springs 

Supplied melodious currents through the woods, 

Inartificial beds of pearly conchs, i 

Along the sea-beat margin cull'd by nymphs, 

The temple's chaste attendants. Unrestrain'd, 

Here flowed the native waters ; there, confined 

By marble fountains, win the enchanted eye 

To shady-skirted lawns, to opening glades, 

Or canopies of verdure : all the founts 

Were graced by guardian images of gods, 

The train of Neptune. 



256 HANNA1I MORE 

Notwithstanding the amusing instance of poetical absence, 
related by Miss More, Glover was a person of great commercial 
acuteness and sagacity. His Speech at the bar of the House of 
Commons, in January, 1741-2, and his evidence before the House 
of Lords, in 1774, respecting Foreign Linen, were warmly ap- 
plauded at the time. The independence of his mind was displayed 
in the rejection of a legacy of 1000£., bequeathed to him by the 
Duchess of Marlborough. His character was drawn in a contem- 
porary journal'"' with great liberality of praise ; and he was there 
pronounced second to none of our English poets, since Milton, in 
a discriminating and accurate acquaintance with ancient and 
modern literature. His classical pictures are usually correct, often 
forcible ; but the colours are seldom brought out by the sunshine of 
his own imagination. 



Glanvillat, June 16, 1785. 
"We left Teston on Monday. Poor Lady Middleton still 
in bed with a fever ! the only drawback from a visit which 
was otherwise so delightful. It is a charming mansion. We 
spent the morning with Miss Hamilton, who, I imagine, will 
have another name by the time you get this letter. I was 
much amused with hearing old Leonidas Glover sing his own 
fine ballad of "Hosier's Ghost," which was very affecting. 
He is past eighty. Mr. "Walpole coming in just afterwards, 
I told him how highly I had been pleased. He begged me 
to intreat for a repetition of it. I suppose you recollect that it 
was the satire conveyed in this little ballad, upon the conduct 
of Sir Robert Walpole's ministry, which is thought to have 
been a remote cause of his resignation J. It was a curious cir- 

* See the Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. LV. p. 992. 

t The seat of Mrs. Boscawen. 

| Burke, in his Thoughts on a Regicide Peace, numbers Glover among 
the most eminent men of the time. " Sir Robert Walpole was forced into 
the war of 1739, by the people, who were inflamed to these measures by the 
most leading politicians, by the first orators, and the greatest poets of the 
times. For that war, Pope sung his dying notes. For that war, Johnson, 
in more energetic strains, employed the force of his early genius. For that 
war, Glover distinguished himself in the way in which his merit was the 
most natural and happy."— See Coxe's Memoirs of Walpole, Vol ..I. p. 684. 



TO HER SISTER. 257 

cumstance to see his son listening to the recital of it with so 
much complacency. Such is the effect of the lapse of time. 

I have rarely heard a more curious instance of the absence 
of mind produced by poetic enthusiasm, than that which 
occurred when the author of Leonidas made one of a party of 
literati assembled at the house of Mr. Gilbert West, at Wick- 
ham. Lord Littelton, on opening his window one morning, 
perceived Glover pacing to and fro with a whip in his hand, 
by the side of a fine bed of tulips, just ready to blow, and 
which were the peculiar care of the lady of the mansion, who 
worshipped Flora with as much ardour as Glover did the 
Muses. His mind was at the instant teeming with the birth 
of some little ballad, when Lord Littelton, to his astonish- 
ment and dismay, perceived him applying his whip, with 
great vehemence, to the stalks of the unfortunate tulips ; all 
of which, before there was time to awaken him from his 
reverie, he had completely levelled with the ground ; and, 
when the devastation he had committed, was afterwards 
pointed out to him, he was so perfectly unconscious of the 
proceeding, that he could with difficulty be brought to believe 
it. I spent a couple of evenings, the last week I was in town,, 
with only Mr. Walpole and Miss Hamilton ; the former read 
some productions of his own to us. He is gone down to 
Strawberry-Hill, where is his printing-press, to collect all his 
works, which, when bound, are to be sent after me to Bristol, 
to help towards making a library at Cowslip-Green. He 
likes the name, and says it is a relation, a cousin at least, to 
Strawberry- Hill. He likes the plan and drawing mightily ; 
and so does Mr. Smelt, with whom I spent a pleasant even- 
ing a day or two before I set out. The cottage has travelled 
about to them all in turn, so that they all know every creek 
and corner of the little mansion. 



L 3 






258 Junius 



LETTER LXVII. 

Junius to the Duke of Bedford. — Indignant 
Condemnation of his Conduct. 

The Peace of 1763, negotiated by the Duke of Bedford, occa- 
sioned much popular displeasure, which in several instances broke 
out into acts of open insurrection. The rumour was promulgated, 
and for some time credited, that the Peace had been purchased by 
the liberal distribution of bribes, on the part of France, among 
several distinguished individuals. Upon the death of Lord Egre- 
mont, Lord Bute, notwithstanding their previous disagreement, 
found it expedient to obtain the interest and support of the Duke 
of Bedford ; who, it is said, " conscious of his importance, exacted 
not only from Lord Bute, but from the King himself, a submission 
to whatever terms" he determined to impose. Among his other 
demands, was the dismissal from office of Lord Bute's brother, Mr. 
Stuart Mackenzie. Impatient of this tyranny, the King applied 
to the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Rockingham^ But the relief 
was only tempora^. The Chatham ministry beheld the introduc- 
tion into the cabinet of the Dukes of Bedford and Grafton, who 
remained after the resignation of their chief. In* this crisis of the 
public affairs, Junius, who commenced his political crusade in the 
January of 1769, addressed his famous letter to the Duke of 
Bedford. 



19th September, 1769. 
My Lord, 

You are so little accustomed to receive any remarks 
of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following 
lines, a compliment or expression of applause should escape 
me, I fear you would consider it as a mockery of your 
established character, and perhaps an insult to your under- 
standing. You have nice feelings, my lord, if we may 
judge from your resentments. Cautious therefore of giving 
offence, where you have so little deserved it, I shall leave the 
illustration of your virtues to other hands. Your friends 



TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 259 

have a privilege to play upon the easiness of your temper, or 
possibly they are better acquainted with your good qualities 
than I am. You have done good by stealth. The rest is upon 
record. You have still left ample room for speculation, 
when panegyric is exhausted. 

You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest 
rank; a splendid fortune; and a name, glorious till it was 
yours, were sufficient to have supported you with meaner 
abilities than I think you possess. From the first you de- 
rived, a constitutional claim to respect ; from the second, a 
natural extensive authority ; the last excited a partial expec- 
tation of hereditary virtues. The use you have made of 
these uncommon advantages might have been more honour- 
able to yourself, but could not be more instructive to mankind. 
We may trace it in the veneration of your country, the choice 
of your friends, and in the accomplishment of every sanguine 
hope, which the public might have conceived from the illus- 
trious name of Russell. 

The eminence of your station gave you a commanding 
prospect of your duty. The road which led to honour was 
open to your view. You could not lose it by mistake, and 
you had no temptation to depart from it by design. ComjDare 
the natural dignity and importance of the richest peer in 
England; the noble independence which he might have 
maintained in parliament, and the real interest and respect 
which he might have acquired, not only in parliament, but 
through the whole kingdom ; compare these glorious distinc- 
tions with the ambition of holding a share in government, 
' the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough, or the 
purchase of a corporation ; and though you may not regret 
the virtues, which create respect, you may see with anguish, 
how much real importance and authority you have lost. 
Consider the character of an independent virtuous Duke of 
Bedford ; imagine what he might be in this country — then 
reflect for one moment upon what you are. If it be possible 



260 Junius 

for me to withdraw my attention from the fact, I will tell 
you in theory what such a man might be. 

Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct 
in parliament would be directed by nothing but the constitu- 
tional duty of a peer. He would consider himself as the 
guardian of the laws. Willing to support the just measures 
of government, but determined to observe the conduct of the 
minister with suspicion, he would oppose the violence of 
faction with as much firmness as the encroachments of prero- 
gative. He would be as little capable of bargaining with the 
minister for places for himself, or his dependents, as of 
descending to mix himself with the intrigues of opposition. 
Whenever an important question called for his opinion in 
parliament, he would be heard, by the most profligate minis- 
ter, with deference and respect. His authority would either 
sanctify or disgrace the measures of government. The people 
would look up to him as to their protector, and a virtuous 
prince would have one honest man in his dominions, in whose 
integrity and judgment he might safely confide. If it should 
be the will of Providence to afflict him with a domestic mis- 
fortune*, he would submit to the shock with feeling, but not 
without dignity. He would consider the people as his 
children, and receive a generous, heartfelt consolation, in the 
sympathizing tears and blessings of his country. 

Your Grace may probably discover something more intel- 
ligible in the negative part of this illustrious character. The 
man I have described, would never prostitute his dignity in 
parliament, by an indecent violence either in opposing or 
defending a minister. He would not at one moment ranco- 
rously persecute, and at another basely cringe to the favourite 
of his sovereign. After outraging the royal dignity with 
peremptory conditions, little short of menace and hostility, 
he would never descend to the humility of soliciting an inter - 

* The Duke's only son had been recently killed by a fall from his horse. 



TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 261 

view with the favourite'"", and of offering to recover, at any 
price, the honour of his friendship. Though deceived, per- 
haps, in his youth, he would not, through the course of a 
long life, have invariably chosen his friends from among the 
most profligate of mankind. His own honour would have 
forbidden him from mixing his private pleasures or conversa- 
tion with jockeys, gamesters, blasphemers, gladiators, or 
buffoons. He would then have never felt, much less would he 
have submitted to the humiliating, dishonest necessity of 
engaging in the interests and intrigues of his dependents, of 
supplying their vices, or relieving the beggary, at the expense 
of his country. He would not have betrayed such ignorance, 
or such contempt of the constitution, as openly to avow, in a 
court of justice, the purchase and sale of a borough. He 
would not have thought it consistent with his rank in the state, 
or even with his personal importance, to be the little tyrant 
of a little corporation. He would never have been insulted 
with virtues which he had laboured to extinguish, nor suffered 
the disgrace of a mortifying defeat, which has made him 
ridiculous and contemptible, even to the few by whom he 
was not detested. I reverence the afflictions of a good man ; 
his sorrows are sacred. But how can we take part in the 
distresses of a man, whom we can neither love nor esteem ; 
or feel for a calamity of which he himself is insensible? 
Where was the father's heart, when he could look for, or 
find an immediate consolation for the loss of an only son, in 
consultations and bargains for^a place at court, and even in 
the misery of balloting at the India House ? 

Admitting, then, that you have mistaken or deserted those 
honourable principles, which ought to have directed your 
conduct ; admitting that you have as little claim to private 
affection as to public esteem, let us see with what abilities, 
with what degree of judgment you have carried your own 
system into execution. A great man in the success, and 
* Lord Bute. 



262 junius 

even in the magnitude of his crimes, finds a rescue from 
contempt. 

Your Grace is every way unfortunate. Yet I will not 
look back to those ridiculous scenes, by which in your earlier 
days, you thought it an honour to be distinguished ; — the 
recorded stripes, the public infamy, your own sufferings, or 
Mr. Rigby's fortitude*. These events undoubtedly left an 
impression, though not upon your mind. To such a mind, it 
may perhaps be a pleasure to reflect, that there is hardly a 
corner of any his Majesty's kingdoms, except France, in which, 
at one time or other, your valuable life has not been in 
danger. Amiable man ! — we see and acknowledge the pro- 
tection of Providence, by which you have so often escaped 
the personal detestation of your fellow-subjects, and are still 
reserved for the public justice of your country. Your history 
begins to be important at that auspicious period, at which 
you were deputed to represent the Earl of Bute, at the Court 
of Versailles. It was an honourable office, and executed with 
the same spirit with which it was accepted. Your patrons 
wanted an ambassador who would submit to make concessions, 
without daring to insist upon any honourable condition for 
his sovereign. Their business required a man who had as 
little feeling for his own dignity as for the welfare of his 
country ; and they found him in the first rank of the nobility. 
Belleisle, Goree, Guadaloupe, St. Lucia, Martinique, the 
Fishery, and the Havanna, are glorious monuments of your 
Grace's talents for negotiation. My Lord, we are too well 
acquainted with your pecuniary character, to think it possible 
that so many public sacrifices should have been made, with- 
out some private compensations. Your conduct carries with 
it an internal evidence, beyond all the legal proofs of a court 
of justice. Even the callous pride of Lord Egremont was 
alarmed. He saw and felt his own dishonour in corresponding 

* The Duke had been horse-whipped by a country attorney, named 
Homphrey, upon the course at Litchfield. 



TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 263 

with you ; and there certainly was a moment at which he 
meant to have resisted, had not a fatal lethargy prevailed 
over his faculties, and carried all sense and memory away 
with it. I will not pretend to specify the secret terms on 
which you were invited to support an administration which 
Lord Bute pretended to leave in full possession of their minis- 
terial authority, and perfectly masters of themselves. He was 
not of a temper to relinquish power, though he retired from 
employment. Stipulations were certainly made between 
your Grace and him, and certainly violated. After two 
years' submission, you thought you had collected a strength 
sufficient to control his influence, and that it was your turn 
to be a tyrant, because you had been a slave. When you 
found yourself mistaken in your opinion of your gracious 
Master's firmness, disappointment got the better of all your 
humble discretion, and carried you to an access of outrage to 
his person, as distant from true spirit, as from all decency and 
respect. After robbing him of the rights of a king, you 
would not permit him to preserve the honour of a gentleman. 
It was then Lord "Weymouth was nominated to Ireland, and 
despatched, (we well remember with what indecent hurry) 
to plunder the treasury of the first-fruits of an employment 
which you well knew he was never to execute. This sudden 
declaration of war against the favourite might have given 
you a momentary merit with the public, if it had either been 
adopted upon principle, or maintained with resolution. With- 
out looking back to all your former servility, we need only 
observe your subsequent conduct, to see upon what motives 
you acted. Apparently united with Lord Grenville, you 
waited until Lord Rockingham's feeble administration should 
dissolve in its own weakness. The moment their dismission 
was suspected — the moment you perceived that another 
system was adopted in the closet, you thought it no disgrace 
to return to your former dependence, and solicit once more 



264 junius 

the friendship of Lord Bute. You begged an interview, at 
which he had spirit enough to treat you with contempt. 

It would now be of little use to point out, by what a train 
of weak, injudicious measures, it became necessary, or was 
thought so, to call you back to a share in the administration. 
The friends, whom you did not in the last instance desert, 
were not of a character to add strength or credit to govern- 
ment; and at that time your alliance with the Duke of 
Grafton was, I presume, hardly foreseen. We must look for 
other stipulations, to account for that sudden resolution of the 
closet, by which three of your dependents*, (whose charac- 
ters, I think, cannot be less respected than they are), were 
advanced to offices, through which you might again control 
the minister, and probably engross the whole direction of 
affairs. 

The possession of the absolute power is now once more 
within your reach. The measures you have taken to obtain 
and confirm it are too gross to escape the eyes of a discerning 
and judicious prince. His palace is besieged; lines of circum- 
vallation are drawing round him; and unless he finds a 
resource in his own activity, or in the attachment of the real 
friends of his family, the best of princes must submit to the 
confinement of a state prisoner, until your Grace's death, or 
some less fortunate event shall raise the siege. For the pre- 
sent, you may resume that style of insult and menace, which 
even a private gentleman cannot submit to hear, without 
being contemptible. Mr. Mackenzie's history is not yet for- 
gotten, and you may find precedents enough of the mode in 
which an imperious subject may signify his pleasure to his 
sovereign. Where will our gracious monarch look for 
assistance, when the wretched Grafton could forget his 
obligations to his master, and desert him for a hollow alliance 
with such a man as the Duke of Bedford ! 

* Lords Gower, Weymouth, and Sandwich. 



TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 265 

Let us consider you, then, as arrived at the summit of 
worldly greatness; let us suppose that all your plans of avarice 
and ambition are accomplished, and your most sanguine wishes 
gratified in the fear, as well as the hatred of the people: can 
age itself forget that you are now in the last act of life ? 
Can gray hairs make folly venerable ? and is there no period 
to be reserved for meditation and retirement? For shame! 
my lord; let it not be recorded of you, that the latest moments 
of your life were dedicated to the same unworthy pursuits, 
the same busy agitations in which your youth and manhood 
were exhausted. Consider, that, although you cannot dis- 
grace your former life, you are violating the character of age, 
and exposing the impotent imbecility, after you have lost the 
vigour of the passions. 

Your friends will ask, perhaps — whither shall this un- 
happy old man retire? Can he remain in the metropolis, 
where his life has been so often threatened, and his palace 
so often attacked ? If he returns to Wooburn, scorn and 
mockery await him: he must create a solitude round his 
estate, if he would avoid the face of reproach and derision. 
At Plymouth, his destruction would be more than probable ; 
at Exeter inevitable, no honest Englishman will ever forget 
his attachment, nor any honest Scotchman forgive his 
treachery, to Lord Bute. At every town he enters, he must 
change his liveries and his name. "Whichever way he flies, 
the Hue and Cry of the country pursues him. 

In another kingdom, indeed, the blessings of his adminis- 
tration have been more sensibly felt ; his virtues better under- 
stood; or at worst, they will not, for him alone, forget their 
hospitality. As well might Yerres have returned to Sicily. You 
have twice escaped, my lord; beware of a third experiment. 
The indignation of a whole people, plundered, insulted, and 
oppressed, as they have been, will not always be disap- 
pointed. 

It is in vain, therefore, to shift the scene. You can no 



266 JUNIUS TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 

more fly from your enemies than from yourself. Persecuted 
abroad, you look into your own heart for consolation, and 
find nothing but reproaches and despair. But, my lord, you 
may quit the field of business, though not the field of danger; 
and though you cannot be safe, you may cease to be ridicu- 
lous. I fear you have listened too long to the advice of those 
pernicious friends, with whose interests you have sordidly 
united your own; and for whom you have sacrificed every- 
thing that ought to be dear to a man of honour. They are 
still base enough to encourage the follies of your age, as they 
once did the vices of your youth. As little acquainted with 
the rules of decorum, as with the laws of morality, they will 
not suffer you to profit by experience, nor even to consult the 
propriety of a bad character. Even now they tell you that 
life is no more than a dramatic scene, in which the hero 
should preserve his consistency to the last, and that as you 
lived without virtue, you should die without repentance. 

Junius. 



LETTER LXVIII. 



Edmund Burke to the Painter Barry. — Affectionate 
interest in his welfare. 

A large portion of Burke's correspondence still remains in 
manuscript; but had we the whole before us, we could hardly 
expect to meet with anything more strongly marked by his " un- 
common qualities of head and heart," than this letter to the 
painter Barry, upon the froward temper which had involved him 
in bickerings with his brethren and the picture-dealers at Rome. 
It is affectionate, eloquent, prophetic, and perfectly adapted to the 
character of the person to whom it was addressed. It is, perhaps, 
to use the words of his biographer, Mr. Prior, "still more ad- 
mirable for its keen estimate of the importance of temper and 
conduct to all men, for teaching the truest wisdom in the practical 
business of living, not merely in the world, but with the world. 



BURKE TO BARRY. 267 

* The conclusion," says Allan Cunningham, " of this memorable 
letter seems dictated by a spirit of inspiration, which looking 
mournfully and prophetically forward, expressed in a few, clear, 
and eloquent words, the disastrous career of the object of this 
solicitude." It might be studied as the summary of the life of this 
unfortunate painter. Barry was born in Cork, in 1741, and after 
acquiring in his native city the rudiments of his art, he went, at 
nineteen, friendless and unknown, to Dublin, to exhibit an histo- 
rical picture which excited considerable admiration. On this 
occasion he was introduced to the notice of Burke, who thence- 
forward extended to him his powerful and generous patronage. 
He directed his studies, removed him, after an interval, to London, 
made him known to the principal artists, and subsequently, in 
conjunction with his brother. William, maintained him abroad for 
five years, that he might perfect his knowledge of art, by the 
diligent study of the greatest masters. 



My dear Barry, Gregories*, Sept. 16, 1769. 

1 I am most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and 
partiality, which attributed a silence very blameable on our 
parts to a favourable cause : let me add in some measure 
to its true cause, a great deal of occupation of various sorts, 
and some of them disagreeable enough. 

As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, 
you may be very sure they could have no kind of influence 
here; for none of us are of such a make as to trust to any one's 
report for the character of a person whom we ourselves know. 
Until very lately, I had never heard anything of your pro- 
ceedings from others; and when I did, it was much less than 
I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill terms 
with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention 
of cause or consequence f . If you have improved these unfor- 

* Mr. Burke's seat in Buckinghamshire. It was during a visit to Grego- 
ries, that Johnson made the well-known observation— non equidem invideo 
— miror magis, 

t Barry early commenced hostilities, by exposing the quackery of ama- 
teurs, and the impositions of the dealers upon the English, who were pur- 
chasers to a large extent of cobbled antiques and of daubings, christened 



268 BURKE 

tunate quarrels to your advancement in your art, you have 
turned a very disagreeable circumstance to a very capital 
advantage*. However you may have succeeded in this 
common attempt, permit me to suggest to you, with that 
friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to 
bear from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same 
success, either with regard to your fortune or your reputation. 
Depend upon it, that you will find the same competitions, 

by the name of this or that master. Two years before the date of this letter 
(Aug. 24, 1767,) Burke addressed him on the subject of these controversies 
with his usual wisdom and penetration. " You have given," he says, "a. 
strong, and I fancy, a very faithful picture of the dealers in taste with you. 
It is very right that you should know and remark their little arts; but as 
fraud will intermeddle in every transaction of life, where we cannot 
oppose ourselves to it with effect, it is by no means our duty or our interest 
to make ourselves uneasy, or multiply enemies on account of it. In parti- 
cular you may be assured that the traffic in antiquity, and all the enthusiasm, 
folly, or fraud, that may be in it, never did, nor never can hurt the merit 
of living artists : quite the contrary, in my opinion ; for I have ever observed, 
that whatever it be that turns the minds of men to anything relative to the 
arts, even the most remotely so, brings artists more and more into credit and 
repute; and though now and then the mere broker and dealer in such things 
runs away with a great deal of the profit ; yet, in the end, ingenious men will 
find themselves gainers, by the dispositions which are nourished and diffused 
in the world by such pursuits. I praise exceedingly your resolution of going 
on well with those whose practices you cannot altogether approve. There 
is no living in the world upon any other terms." Barry's quarrelsome 
disposition soon broke through the resolution, and in a letter dated July 
19, 1768, we find Burke repeating his friendly and wise exhortations. 
" I must press it upon ycu to live on the best terms with the people 
you are with, even dealers and the like ; for it will not follow, that because 
men want some virtues, that they want all. Their society will be of 
some relief to ycu, and their intercourse of some advantage, if it were no 
more than a dispelling of the unsociable humours contracted in solitude 
which will, in the end, not' fail of corrupting the understanding as well as 
the manners, and of utterly disqualifying a man for the satisfactions and 
duties of life. Men must be taken as they are, and we neither make them 
or ourselves better, either by flying from or quarrelling with them ; and 
Rome, and the trade of Virtu, are not the only places and professions in 
which many little practices ought to be overlooked in others, though they 
should be carefully avoided by ourselves." 

* He was persuaded his enemies had done him service by their influence 
in shutting him out from present gains, which led him to concentre all his 
powers on his improvement in art, by putting an end to companionship ; and 
for saving him the expense of treats and taverns, and by their satirical criti- 
cisms on his colouring, which brought him to the knowledge of the merits of 
Titian. 



TO BARRY. 269 

the same jealousies, the same arts and cabals, the emulations 
of interest and of fame, and the same agitations and passions 
here that you have experienced in Italy; and if they have 
the same effect on your temper, they will have just the same 
effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, 
you will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be 
the same at London as at Rome ; and the same in Paris as in 
London: for the world is pretty nearly alike in all its parts: 
nay, though it would, perhaps, be a little inconvenient to 
me, I had a thousand times rather you should fix your resi- 
dence in Rome than here, as I should not then have the mor- 
tification of seeing with my own eyes, a genius of the first 
rank lost to the world, himself, and his friends, as I certainly 
must, if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking 
here, totally different from what your letters from Rome have 
described to me. 

That you have had subjects of indignation always, and of 
anger often, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world 
without some trial of his patience? But believe me, my dear 
Barry, that the arms with which the ill dispositions of the 
world are to be combated, and the qualities by which it is to 
be reconciled to us, and we reconciled to it, are moderation, 
gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and a great deal of 
distrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a mean 
spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of a 
great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much 
as they contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can 
be so unworthy of a well-composed soul, as to pass away life 
in bickerings and litigations, in snarling and scuffling with 
every one about us. 

Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace 
with our species; if not for their sakes, yet very much for 
our own. Think what my feelings must be, from my un- 
feigned regard, and from my wishes that your talents might 
be of use, when I see what the inevitable consequences must 



270 BURKE 

be, of your persevering in what has hitherto been your course, 
ever since I knew you, and which you will permit me to 
trace out for you beforehand. 

You will come here; you will observe what the artists 
are doing; and you will sometimes speak a disapprobation in 
plain words, and sometimes by a no less expressive silence. 
By degrees you will produce some of your own works. They 
will be variously criticised; you will defend them; you will 
abuse those that have attacked you; expostulations, discus- 
sions, letters, possibly challenges, will go forward; you will 
shun your brethren, they will shun you. In the mean time, 
gentlemen will avoid your friendship, for fear of being en- 
gaged in your quarrels; you will fall into distresses which 
will only aggravate your disposition for further quarrels; 
you will be obliged, for maintenance to do anything for any 
body; your very talents will depart for want of hope and 
encouragement; and you will go out of the world fretted, 
disappointed, and ruined. 

Nothing but my real regard for you could induce me to 
set these considerations in this light before you. Remember, 
.we are born to serve and to adorn our country, and not to 
contend with our fellow citizens, and that in particular, your 
business is to paint and not to dispute. 

If you think this a proper time to leave Rome (a matter 
which I leave entirely to yourself,) I am quite of opinion you 
ought to go to Venice. Further, I think it right to see 
Florence and Bologna: and that you cannot do better than to 
take that route to Venice. In short, do everything that may 
contribute to your improvement, and I shall rejoice to see 
you what Providence intended you, a very great man. This 
you were, in your ideas, before you quitted this; you best 
know how far you have studied, that is, practised the mecha- 
nic, despised nothing till you had tried it; practised dissections 
with your own hands; painted from nature as well as from 
the statues, and portrait as well as history, and this frequently. 



TO BARRY. 271 

If you have done all this, as I trust you have, you want 
nothing but a little prudence, to fulfil all our wishes. This, 
let me tell you, is no small matter; for it is impossible for 
you to find any persons anywhere more truly interested for 
you ; to these dispositions attribute everything which may be a 
little harsh in this letter. TVe are, thank God, all well, and 
all most truly and sincerely yours. I seldom write so long a 
letter. Take this as a sort of proof how much I am, dear 
Barry, 

Your faithful friend, 

And humble servant, 

Edmund Burke. 



LETTER LXIX. 

Burke to Robertson. — Acknowledging the Present 
of his History of America. 

Robertson must have regarded this letter of Burke as the 
noblest tribute ever rendered to his talents; in the judgment of 
many, it will outweigh the censure of another celebrated contem- 
porary, from whose literary sentences that age, at least, rarely 
permitted any appeal. 

Johnson, who regarded the style of Robertson as modelled 
upon his own, always spoke of Ms works in depreciating terms. 
" Robertson," he said, "paints, but you are sure he does not know 
the people whom he paints : so you cannot suppose a likeness." 
Upon another occasion, in the course of an ingenious parallel 
between the Scottish writer and Goldsmith, he observed, of the 
History of America, — " You must look upon Robertson's work as 
romance, and try it by that standard. History it is not." Mack- 
intosh, in a more temperate spirit of criticism, while admitting 
the "firmness" of his elegance, and the "stiffness" of his dignity, 
commended, with becoming warmth, his singular power of in- 
teresting narrative, which gradually beguiles the reader of every 
prejudice. He pronounced him to be the most picturesque narrator 
among modern historians. Gibbon, whose early stud}" of our 
language had been directed by Mallet to the writings of Swift and 



272 BURKE 

Addison, remarks, in his Autobiography, that the perfect composi- 
tion, the well-turned periods, and the nervous diction of Robertson, 
inflamed him with the hope of one day treading in his footsteps. 



I am perfectly sensible of the very flattering distinction 
I have received, in your thinking me worthy of so noble a 
present, as that of your History of America. I have, how- 
ever, suffered my gratitude to lie under some suspicion, by 
delaying my acknowledgment of so great a favour. But my 
delay was only to render my obligation to you more complete, 
and my thanks, if possible, more merited. The close of the 
session brought a great deal of very troublesome business on 
me at once. I could not get through your work at one 
breath at that time, though I have done it since. I am now- 
enabled to thank you not only for the honour you have done 
me, but for the great satisfaction and the infinite variety and 
compass of instruction I have received, from your incom- 
parable work. Everything has been done which was so 
naturally to be expected from the author of the History of 
Scotland, and of the Age of Charles the Fifth. I believe few 
books have done more than this towards clearing up dark 
points, correcting errors, and removing prejudices. You have, 
too, the pure secret of rekindling an interest on subjects that 
had so often been treated, and in which everything which 
could feed a vital flame, appeared to have been consumed. I 
am sure I read many parts of your History with that fresh 
concern and anxiety which attend those who are not previously 
apprized of the event. You have, besides, thrown quite a 
new light on the present state of the Spanish provinces, and 
furnished both materials and hints for a rational theory of 
what may be expected from them in future. 

The parts which I read with the greatest pleasure, is the 
discussion on the manners and character of the inhabitants of 
the New World. I have always thought with you, that we pos- 
sess at this time very great advantages towards the knowledge 



TO ROBERTSON. 273 

of human nature. We need no longer go to history to trace it 
in all stages and periods. History, from its comparative 
youth, is but a poor instructor. When the Egyptians called 
the Greeks children in antiquities, we may well call them 
children ; and so we may call all those nations which were 
able to trace the progress of society only within their own 
limits. But now the great map of mankind is unrolled at 
once, and there is no state or gradation of barbarism, and no 
mode of refinement, which we have not at the same moment 
under view : the very different civility of Europe and of 
China, the barbarism of Persia and of Abyssinia, the erratic 
manners of Tartary and of Arabia; the savage state of North 
America and of New Zealand. Indeed, you have made a noble 
use of the advantages you have had. You have employed 
philosophy to judge on manners, and from manners you have 
drawn new resources for philosophy. I only think that in 
one or two points you have hardly done justice to the savage 
character. 

There remains before you a great field. Periculosce 
plenum opus alece tractas, et incedis per ignes suppositos cineri 
doloso. 

When even those ashes will be spread over the present 
fire, God knows. I am heartily sorry that we are now 
supplying you with that kind of dignity and concern, which 
is purchased to history at the expense of mankind. I had 
rather by far that Dr. Robertson's pen were only employed in 
delineating the humble scenes of political economy, than the 
great events of a civil war. However, if our statesmen had 
read the book of human nature instead of the journals of the 
House of Commons, and History instead of Acts of Parlia- 
ment, we should not by the latter have furnished out so 
ample a page for the former. For my part, I have not been, 
nor am I, very forward in my speculations on this subject. 
All that I have ventured to make, have hitherto proved 
fallacious. I confess I thought the colonies left to themselves 

M 



274 BURKE TO ROBERTSON. 

could not have made anything like the present resistance to 
the whole power of this country and its allies. I did not 
think it could have been done without the declared interfer- 
ence of the house of Bourbon. But I looked on it as very 
probable that France and Spain would before this time have 
taken a decided part. In both these conjectures I have 
judged amiss. You will smile when I send you a trifling 
temporary production, made for the occasion of a day, and to 
perish with it, in return for your immortal work. But our 
exchange resembles the politics of the times. You send out 
solid wealth — the accumulation of ages; and in return you 
get a few flying leaves of poor American paper. However, 
you have the mercantile comfort of finding the balance of 
trade infinitely in your favour ; and I console myself with 
the snug consideration of uninformed natural acuteness, that I 
have my warehouse full of goods at another's expense. 

Adieu, Sir, continue to instruct the world : and whilst we 
carry on a poor unequal conflict with the passions and pre- 
judices of our day, perhaps with no better weapons than 
other passions and prejudices of our own, convey wisdom at 
our expense to future generations. 



LETTER LXX. 



Sir William Jones to the Countess of Spencer. — 
A Romance about Milton. 

Upon his return from Harrow, in the autumnal vacation of 
1769, with his pupil, Lord Althorpe, Sir William, then Mr. Jones, 
visited his friends at Oxford ; and, during his residence among 
them, he made the excursion to Forest-Hill, which is related with 
so much animation in the following letter. But a careful investi- 
gation of his hypothesis respecting Milton has shown that it cannot 
be supported. He says, that the poet chose this spot for his abode, 
after his first marriage ; but Milton's union with the daughter of 
Mr. Powell did not take place until 1643, when he had entered 



SIR WILLIAM JONES TO THE COUNTESS OF SPENCER. 275 

upon his thirty-fifth year ; and lie himself expressly alludes to the 
Collection, in which L? Allegro and U Penseroso appeared, as the 
work of his youthful hand. The poems, moreover, contain inter- 
nal evidence of having been written in the neighbourhood of the 
woody scenery about Harefield. But, although Milton did not 
write these famous poems at Forest-Hill, it is not improbable that 
he introduced into them some of the features of the beautiful land- 
scape which that spot presented to his eyes ; he may have visited 
it when admitted, in 1635, according to the custom of the age, to 
the same degree at Oxford which he had previously taken at his 
own university. That, at a later period of his life, he actually 
resided at Forest-Hill, may also be admitted, although one of his 
recent biographers very positively asserts that such a supposition 
must be given up. Mr. Todd has quoted from a letter of Madame 
du Bocage, who visited Baron Schutz and his wife at Shotover- 
Hill, in the June of 1750, a singular confirmation of the local tra- 
dition mentioned by Sir William Jones. "They showed me," 
she says, "from a small eminence, Milton's house, to which I 
bowed with all the reverence with which that poet's memory 
inspires me." The same writer notices the observation of the 
laureate Warton, that a large portion of Paradise Lost was com- 
posed at Forest- Hill. The question is more curious than important. 
Both V Allegro and U Penseroso ought, perhaps, to be regarded as 
fancy-pieces, into which the poet has grouped the most harmonious 
circumstances of description, as they dwelt upon his memory, 
without intending to describe any particular situation. We know 
that the Deserted Village of Goldsmith was composed in this 
manner ; and the attempts to accommodate every particular in 
it to some imaginary original, have been more ingenious than suc- 
cessful. Living with his father, in the rural quiet of Horton, one 
of the most secluded hamlets in Buckinghamshire, Milton would 
be likely to indulge in that varied strain of contemplative descrip- 
tion, of which these poems offer so exquisite an example. 



September 7, 1762. 
The necessary trouble of correcting the first printed sheets 
of my History, prevented me to-day from paying a proper 
respect to the memory of Shakspeare, by attending his jubilee. 
But I was resolved to do all the honour in my power to as 
great a poet, and set out in the morning, in company with a 

m 2 



276 SIR WILLIAM JONES 

friend, to visit a place where Milton spent some part of his 
life, and where, in all probability, he composed several of his 
earliest productions. It is a small village, situated on a plea- 
sant hill, about three miles from Oxford, and called Forest- 
Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous to a forest, which has 
since been cut down. The poet chose this place of retirement 
after his first marriage, and he describes the beauty of his 
retreat in that fine passage of his L'A llegro. 

Sometimes walking not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 
* * * * * 

While the ploughman, near at hand, 

Whistles o'er the furrow' d land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 

And the mower whets his scythe ; 

And every shepherd tells his tale, 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 

While the landscape round it measures. 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains, on whose barren breast 

The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees, 

Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 

* * * * ¥r 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks, &c. 

It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of 
the day, to hear all the rural sounds and see all the objects 
mentioned in this description ; but by a pleasing concurrence 
of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the 
village, with the music of the mower and his scythe ; we saw 
the ploughman intent upon his labour, and the milkmaid 
returning from her country employment. 

As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, 



TO THE COUNTESS OF SPENCER. 277 

the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole 
scene, gave us the highest pleasure. "We at length reached 
the spot whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images : 
it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most exten- 
sive prospect on all sides ; the distant mountains that seemed 
to support the clouds, the villages and turrets, partly shaded 
by trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above the 
groves that surrounded them, the dark plains and meadows,, 
of a grayish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large; in 
short, the view of the streams and rivers, convinced us that 
there was not a single useless or idle word in the above-men- 
tioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively 
representation of nature. Thus w T ill this fine passage, which 
has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional 
beauty from its exactness. After we had walked, with a 
kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we 
'returned to the village. 

The poet's house was close to the church ; the greatest 
part of it has been pulled down, and what remains, belongs 
to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers in 
Milton's own hand were found by the gentleman who was last 
in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived 
there is current among the villagers : one of them showed us 
a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber; and I was 
much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name of 
Milton, but recollected him by the title of the poet. 

It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village 
are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described 
in the Penseroso. Most of the cottage-windows are over- 
grown with sweetbriers, vines, and honeysuckles; and that 
Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament, we may 
conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good- 
morrow : 

Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine. 



278 SIR WILLIAM JONES TO THE COUNTESS OF SPENCER. 

for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the 
eglantine, though that word is commonly used for the sweet- 
brier, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. 
If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford, in the summer, 
I shall be inclined to hire and repair this venerable mansion, 
and to make a festival for a circle of friends, in honour of 
Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, 
that our country ever produced. Such an honour will be less 
splendid, but more sincere and respectful, than all the pomp 
and ceremony on the banks of the Avon. I have, &c. 



LETTER LXXI. 



The Historian Gibbon to Mrs. Porter ; giving a de- 
scription of his manner of Life at Lausanne. 

Gibbon mentions in his Memoirs, that the first rough manu- 
script of his great history was committed to the press without any 
intermediate copy, and without undergoing any revision, but his 
own. He has, however, in an earlier page, furnished the key to 
this mystery of excellence. " Three times," he says, " did I com- 
pose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I was 
tolerably satisfied with their effect." We may conclude that 
similar difficulties, in successive chapters, were polished down by 
the same elaboration. He seems to have bestowed equal solicitude 
upon his correspondence. Dugald Stewart relates, that an exact 
copy of the letter to Robertson, upon his History of America, was 
discovered among the papers of Gibbon. " I have often wondered," 
he wrote to Mrs. Gibbon, " why we are not fonder of letter- 
writing. We all delight to talk of ourselves, and it is only in 
letters, in writing to a friend, that we can enjoy that conversation, 
not only without reproach or interruption, but with the highest 
propriety and mutual satisfaction ; sure that the person whom we 
address feels an equal, or at least a strong and lively interest, in the 
consideration of the pleasing subject." No man will write letters 
with pleasure, who composes them like an author, and is always 
in search of graceful turns and combinations of imagery, sparkling 
sentiments, and harmonious periods. 



. GIBBON TO MRS PORTER. 279 

While residing at Lausanne, in the summer of 1753, after the 
change of his religious creed had closed upon him the gates of 
Magdalen College, Gibbon formed an acquaintance with Mr. Dey- 
verdun, then " a young man of amiable temper and excellent 
understanding." Hither, after the lapse of many years, he at 
length returned, and renewed the intimacy with his youthful 
companion, which was only terminated by his death. In this 
retreat, he completed, on the 27th of June, 1787, his celebrated 
History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which 
must ever remain an imperishable monument of human learning 
and human weakness. The arrangements of the two friends were 
brief and simple ; Dey verdun possessed a pleasant residence at the 
foot of the Alps, and Gibbon undertook the expense of their com- 
mon house. 

The lady to whom this letter was addressed was the historian's 
aunt, and had watched over his infancy and childhood with more 
than maternal interest. The most affecting account of her is con- 
tained in a letter from Gibbon to Lord Sheffield, upon the intelli- 
gence of her death. " To her care I am indebted in earliest infancy 
for the preservation of my life and health. I was a puny child, 
neglected by my mother, starved by my nurse, and of whose being 
very little care or expectation was entertained. Without her ma- 
ternal vigilance I should either have been in my grave, or imper- 
fectly lived, a crooked ricketty monster, a burden to myself and 
others. To her instructions I owe the first rudiments of know- 
ledge, the first exercise of reason, and a taste for books, which is still 
the pleasure and glory of my life ; and though she taught me neither 
language nor science, she was certainly the most useful preceptor 
I ever had. As I grew up, an intercourse of thirty years endeared 
her to me, as the faithful friend and the agreeable companion. 
You have seen with what freedom and confidence we lived together, 
and have often admired her character and conversation, which could 
alike please the young and the old. All this is now lost, finally 
irrecoverably lost !" 



Dear Madame, Lausanne, Dec. 27, 1783. 

The unfortunate are loud and loquacious in their com- 
plaints, but real happiness is content with its own silent 
enjoyment; and if that happiness is of a quiet uniform kind, 
we suffer days and weeks to elapse without communicating 



280 



GIBBON 



our sensations to a distant friend. By you, therefore, whose 
temper and understanding have extracted from human life on 
every occasion the best and most comfortable ingredients, my 
silence will always be interpreted as an evidence of content, 
and you would only be alarmed (the danger is not at hand,) 
by the too-frequent repetition of my letters. Perhaps I 
should have continued to slumber, I don't know how long, 
had I not been awakened by the anxiety which you express 
in your last letter. . . . 

From this base subject I ascend to one which more 
seriously and strongly engages your thoughts, the considera- 
tion of my health and happiness. And you will give me 
credit when I assure you, with sincerity, that I have not 
repented a single moment of the step which I have taken, 
and that I only regret the not having executed the same 
design two, or five, or even ten years ago. By this time, I 
might have returned independent and rich to my native 
country; I should have escaped many disagreeable events 
that have happened in the mean while, and I should have 
avoided the parliamentary life, which experience has proved 
to be neither suitable to my temper, nor conducive to my for- 
tune. In speaking of the happiness which I enjoy, you will 
agree with me in giving the preference to a sincere and sen- 
sible friend; and though you cannot discern the full extent of 
his merit, you can easily believe that Deyverdun is the man. 
Perhaps two persons, so perfectly fitted to live together, were 
never formed by nature and education. "We have both read 
and seen a great variety of objects; the lights and shades of 
our different characters are happily blended, and a friendship 
of thirty years has taught us to enjoy our mutual advantages, 
and to support our unavoidable imperfections. In love and 
marriage, some harsh sounds will sometimes interrupt the 
harmony, and in the course of time, like our neighbours, we 
must expect some disagreeable moments; but confidence and 
freedom are the two pillars of our union, and I am much mis- 



TO MRS. PORTER. 281 

taken if the building be not solid and comfortable. One 
disappointment I have indeed experienced, and patiently- 
supported. The family who were settled in Deyverduns 
house started some unexpected difficulties, and will not leave 
it till the spring; so that you must not yet expect any 
poetical, or even historical, description of the beauties of my 
habitation. During the dull months of winter, we are satis- 
fied with a very comfortable apartment in the middle of the 
town, and even derive some advantage from this delay; as it 
gives us time to arrange some plans of alteration and furni- 
ture which will embellish our future and more elegant dwell- 
ing. In this season I rise (not at four in the morning,) but 
a little before eight; at nine, I am called from my study to, 
breakfast, which I always perform alone, in the English style; 
and, with the aid of Caplin*, I perceived no difference between 
Lausanne and Bentinck-street. Our mornings are usually 
passed in separate studies; we never approach each other's 
door without a previous message, or thrice knocking, and. 
my apartment is already sacred and formidable to strangers.. 
I dress at half-past one, and at two (an early hour, to which* 
I am not perfectly reconciled,) we sit down to dinner. We 
have hired a female cook, well-skilled in her profession, and 
accustomed to the taste of every nation; as for instance, we. 
had excellent mince-pies yesterday. After dinner, and the 
departure of our company, one, two, or three friends, we read, 
together some amusing book, or play at chess, or retire to our 
rooms, or make visits, or" go to the coffee-house. Between, 
six and seven the assemblies begin, and I am oppressed only 
with their number and variety. Whist, at shillings or half- 
crowns, is the game I generally play, and I play three rubbers. 
with pleasure. Between nine and ten we withdraw to our 
bread and cheese, and friendly converse, which sends us to 
bed at eleven; but these sober hours are too often interrupted 

* His English valet de chambre. 

M 3 



282 GIBBON 

by private and numerous suppers, which I have not the 
courage to resist, though I practise a laudable abstinence at 
the best-furnished tables. Such is the skeleton of my life ; 
it is impossible to communicate a perfect idea of the vital and 
substantial parts, the characters of the men and women with 
whom I have very easily connected myself in looser and closer 
bonds, according to their inclination and my own. If I do not 
deceive myself, and if Deyverdun does not flatter me, I am 
already a general favourite ; and, as our likings and dislikes 
are commonly mutual, I am equally satisfied with the freedom 
and elegance of manners, and (after proper allowances and 
exceptions,) with the worthy and amiable qualities of many 
individuals. The autumn has been beautiful, and the winter, 
hitherto, mild; but in January we must expect some severe 
frost. Instead of rolling in a coach, I walk the streets, 
wrapped up in a fur cloak; but this exercise is wholesome, 
and, except an accidental fit of the gout of a few days, I 
never enjoyed better health. I am no longer in Pavillard's 
house, where I was almost starved with cold and hunger, and 
you may be assured I now enjoy every benefit of comfort, 
plenty, and even decent luxury. You wish me happy; 
acknowledge that such a life is more conducive to happiness, 
than five nights in the week passed in the House of Commons, 
or five mornings spent at the custom-house. Send me, in 
return, a fair account of your own situation, in mind and 
body. I am satisfied your own good sense would have recon- 
ciled you to inevitable separation; but there never was a more 
suitable diversion than your visit to Sheffield-place. Among the 
innumerable proofs of friendship which I have received from 
that family, there are none which affect me more sensibly than 
their kind civilities to you, though I am persuaded that they 
are at least as much on your account as on mine. At length, 

Madame de — is delivered by her tyrant's death; her 

daughter, a valuable woman of this "place, has made some 
inquiries, and, though her own circumstances are narrow, she 



TO MRS. PORTER. 283 

will not suffer her father's widow to be left totally destitute. 
I am glad you derived so much melancholy pleasure from the 
letters, yet had I known it, I should have withheld. . * * * 



LETTER LXXII. 



The Poet Burns to his Father. — Melancholy 
Forebodings. 

The letters of Burns want the simplicity, the heartiness, and 
the facility of his verse ; — for these deficiencies two excuses have 
been offered. The first has been found in his comparative igno- 
rance of our language. "Burns, though for the most part he writes 
with singular force and even gracefulness, is not master of English 
prose, as he is of Scottish verse, — not master of it in proportion 
to the depth and vehemence of his matter." The second, and 
more important excuse, is discovered in the peculiarity of the 
poet's social position. " His correspondents are often men whose 
relation to him he has never accurately ascertained ; whom there- 
fore he is either forearming himself against, or else unconsciously 
flattering, by adopting the style he thinks will please them. 
Whenever he writes, as one would ever wish to do, to trusted 
friends, and on real interests, his style becomes simple, vivid, 
vigorous, expressive, sometimes even beautiful." Sir Walter Scott 
found many passages of great eloquence, accompanied by an air of 
affectation, and a tincture of pedantry ; while Mr. Jeffrey, with 
more relentless severity, supposed -a large portion of his letters to 
have been composed only with a view to effect. "When Burns 
wrote this touching letter to his father," observes Allan Cunning- 
ham, in his illustrative note, " he was toiling as a heckler in his 
unfortunate flax speculation, a dull as well as a dusty employment. 
On the fourth day after it was penned, the poet and his relation 
Peacock were welcoming in the New Year ; a lighted candle 
touched some flax, and there was an end to all their hopes. Of 
William Burns, the father of the Poet, much has already been 
said ; he was a worthy and pious man, desirous of maintaining 
rigid discipline in his house, and solicitous about the future welfare 
of his children. He was somewhat austere of manners ; loved not 
boisterous jocularity ; was rarely himself moved to laughter ; and 



284 THE POET BURNS 

has been described as abstemious of speech. His early and con- 
tinued misfortunes, though they saddened his brow, never afflicted 
the warm benevolence of his nature ; he was liberal to the poor, 
and stern and self-denying only to himself. He is buried in Allo- 
way Kirk-yard, and his grave is visited by all who desire to pay 
homage to the fame of his eminent son." 



Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 
Honoured Sir, 

I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I 
should have the pleasure of seeing you on New Year's Day; 
but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be 
absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons 
which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the 
same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little 
sounder; and on the whole I am rather better than other- 
wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness 
of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither 
review past events, nor look forward into futurity; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast, produces most unhappy 
effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little 
into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed, my only plea- 
surable employment is, looking backwards and forwards in a 
moral and religious way : I am quite transported at the 
thought, that ere long — perhaps very soon, I shall bid an 
eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes 
of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it; 
and if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly 
and gladly resign it. 

The soul, uneasy and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, 
and 17th of the seventh chapter of Revelations, than with 
any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would 



TO HIS FATHER. 285 

not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire 
me, for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I 
despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for 
the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed, 
I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I 
foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I 
am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful 
thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, 
which were too much neglected at the time of giving them 
but which I hope have been remembered ere it is yet too late. 
Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compli- 
ments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry 
New Year's Day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your 
dutiful son, 

Robert Burns. 

P.S. — My meal is out, but I am going to borrow, till I 
get more. 



LETTER LXXIII. 



The Same to Mrs. Dunlop. — His Situation and 
Prospects. 

Burns arrived at Edinburgh towards the close of November, 
1786, and continued in the Scottish capital for several months, the 
wonder of ever literary coterie. " Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop," 
writes Allan Cunningham, " the daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace, 
of Craigie, was proud of her descent from the race of Elderslie, and 
proud of her acquirements, which were considerable. Nor should 
we leave unmentioned, that she had some talent for rhyme. She 
had been ailing, and the first advantage she took of returning 
health, was to read the poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. She 
was struck with the beauty, natural and religious, of the Cottar's 
Saturday Night" " The Poet's description of the simple cottagers," 



286 THE POET BURNS 

she told Gilbert Burns, " operated on her mind like the charm of 
a powerful exorcist, repelling the demon ennui, and restoring her 
to her wonted harmony and satisfaction." An express, sent six- 
teen miles, for half a dozen copies of the hook, and an invitation to 
Dunlop House, attested her sincerity. From this period we must 
date a friendship, which did not close with the poet's life. The 
poet's letters to Mrs. Dunlop, are by far the most valuable and 
interesting in his collected correspondence. They could not fail of 
being so, having been written, as he confessed, with all the artless- 
ness of truth, and consisting, in his own words, of the " rhapsody 
of the minute." 



Edinburgh, March 22, 1787- 
Madam, 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very 

little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride 

of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, patronised, 

befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give 

them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I 

have made some small alteration in what I before had printed. 

I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the 

literati here ; but with them I sometimes find it necessary to 

claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl 

of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me 

the honour of giving me his strictures : his hints, with respect 

to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views and 

prospects ; there I can give you no light. It is all 

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride ; 
to continue to deserve it, is my most exalted ambition. 
Scottish themes and Scottish story, are the themes I could 
wish to sing- I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which, 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 287 

heaven knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgri- 
mages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; 
to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
by- the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. But these are all utopian thoughts. I 
have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in earnest. 
I have a fond, an aged mother to care for ; and some other 
bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual 
only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, shining 
abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a 
heedless character; but where God and nature have intrusted 
the welfare of others to his care — where the trust is sacred, 
and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfish- 
ness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions 
will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear two or three hundred pounds by 
my authorship ; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be 
said to have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance 
the plough ; and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can 
live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry; 
being bred to labour, secures me independence, and the Muses 
are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If 
my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at 
heart the serious business of life ; but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance 
to that dear — that only feature of my character, which gave 
me the notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his 
situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. 

R. B. 



ARBUTHNOT 



LETTER LXXIY. 
Arbuthnot to Pope. — A Farewell. 

Arbuthnot's last letter to Pope should have followed his 
friend's. Hayley esteemed it one of the most manly and interesting 
to be found in the Poet's correspondence, and eulogized the writer 
" as a man equally distinguished by the moral gaiety of his life, 
and by his serene preparation for death ; — a man so happily free 
from all flagrant misconduct, that his greatest fault seems to have 
been an inattention to his own admirable writings ; for some of 
them, it is said, he suffered his children to destroy, in the shape of 
play-things." Pope, in his reply, while promising to observe his 
friend's request, added, — " If it be the Will of God (which I know 
will also be yours), that we must separate, I hope it will be 
better for you than it can be for me. You are fitter to live, or to 
die, than any man I know. Adieu, my dear friend ! and may 
God preserve your life easy, or make your death happy." Pope, 
writing to Swift, Dec. 19, 1734, had communicated the declining 
health of their beloved companion. " He, himself, poor man, is 
much broke, though not worse than for these two last months he 
has been." Arbuthnot died in February, 1734-5, and seems to have 
realized, in the tranquil resignation of his last hours, the beautiful 
sentiment of that famous Epistle which Pope had addressed to 
him : — 

On cares like those if length of days attend, 
May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend ; 
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, 
And just as rich as when he served a queen. 
Whether that blessing be denied or given, 
Thus far was right ; the rest belongs to Heaven. 



Hampstead, July 17, 1739. 
I little doubt of your kind concern for me, nor of that of 
the lady you mention. I have nothing to repay my friends 
with at present, but prayers and good wishes. I have the 
satisfaction to find that I am, and as officiously, served by my 
friends, as he that has thousands to leave in legacies ; besides 



to pope. 289 

the assurance of their sincerity, God Almighty has made my 
bodily distress as easy as a thing of that nature can be. I 
have found some relief, at least sometimes, from the air of 
this place. My nights are bad, but many poor creatures 
have worse. 

As for you, my good friend, I think, since our first 
acquaintance, there have not been any of those little suspi- 
cions or jealousies that often affect the sincerest friendships : 
I am sure not on my side. I must be so sincere as to own, 
that though I could not help valuing you for those talents 
which the world prizes, yet they were not the foundations of 
my friendship : they were quite of another sort ; nor shall I 
at present offend you by enumerating them ; and I make it 
my last Request, that you will continue that noble disdain 
and abhorrence of Vice, which you seem naturally endued 
with ; but still with a due regard to your own safety, and 
study more to reform than chastise, though the one cannot 
be effected without the other. 

Lord Bathurst I have always honoured, for every good 
quality that a person of his rank ought to have ; pray, give 
my respects and kindest wishes to the family. My venison 
stomach is gone, but I have those about me, and often with 
me, who will be very glad of his present. If it is left at my 
house, it will be transmitted safe to me. 

A recovery in my case, and at my age, is impossible ; the 
kindest wish of my friends is Euthanasia. Living or dying, 
I shall always be yours, &c. 



290 BARRY 



LETTER LXXV. 

James Barry to Burke. — A Sketch of his Journey from 
Paris to Turin. 

Amid all the outbreaks of his perverse and fiery temper, Barry 
never seems to have forgotten his obligations and gratitude to 
Burke. " I am your property," he wrote to him ; " you ought 
surely to be free with a man of your own making, who has found 
in you father, brother, friend, everything." Upon another occa- 
sion he said, — " Mr. Burke has been, under God > all in all to me." 
Of Barry's intellectual talents Burke thought highly. "Your 
letters," he told him, " are very kind in remembering us ; and 
surely as to the criticism of every kind, admirable. Reynolds 
likes them exceedingly." Sir Joshua expressed a lively interest 
in Barry's welfare, and addressed a letter to him, during his resi- 
dence in Italy, full of sagacious advice, and refined criticism, upon 
the pure school of art : exhorting him to visit frequently the 
Sistine Chapel, for the study of Michael Angelo and Raphael, he 
observed, — " If you should not relish them at first, which may 
probably be the case, as they have none of those qualities which 
are captivating at first sight, never cease looking till you feel some- 
thing like inspiration come over you." Reynolds spoke from 
experience ; for he has recorded his own disappointment on first 
entering the Vatican. Barry survived Burke about nine years, 
and died in 1806. 



Turin, Sept. 29, 1766. 
My dear Sirs *, 

I left Paris the 7th of this month, and had, thank 
God, a most agreeable journey. The weather being extremely 
fine, the country of Burgundy, and the other southern parts of 
France, made a most delicious appearance, being at that time 
teeming over with all the riches and abundance of autumn. 
We may in England talk as much as we please of cultivation 

* His usual manner of address, signifying his intention of writing to the 
family collectively. 



TO BURKE. 291 

and plenty, but I must honestly confess, that I never before 
saw anything but the faint glimmerings of it, compared with 
this country, where nature seems ambitions of doing every- 
thing herself. The people, who are extremely numerous, are. 
(or seemed to me to be) very amply employed in the gather- 
ing and storing up of fruits. Methinks, without any great 
poetical amplification, it is somewhat probable, when Bacchus 
made his rounds of the earth, that his head-quarters must 
have been in one of the valleys of Burgundy, where on every 
side mountain peeps over mountain, and appears clothed in 
all the variegated hues of the vine, interspersed with sheep, 
corn, and I may say, with everything. This, and the crowds 
of busy contented people which cover (as one may say) the 
whole face of the country, make a strong, but melancholy 

contrast to a miserable , which I cannot help thinking 

of sometimes. You will not be at any loss to know that I 
mean Ireland ; and that I glance at the extensive, unpeopled 
wastes, where only now and then one is to see some meagre, 
scared fellow, who has almost a day's journey to drive cattle 
to a habitation, where his ill-fated family perhaps may make 
a Christmas dinner upon the offals of those very cattle ; very 
little of which falls to his share out of the market that is 
made of them for other countries — but hang them all ; I have 
long since given them up, and will go on to give you such 
accounts of the Alps as I can, though I should repeat, as I 
often do, what you know already, and have much better 
information of, than I can possibly give you. 

From the confines of France over Mount Cenis, to within 
about thirty miles of Turin, we have been in one continued 
ascent, though strictly speaking, it was all the way through 
Savoy, up and down the horrid ridges of the mountains, and 
sometimes in the most gloomy vales between them, which 
would have made it almost impossible to say whether we 
were upon the rise or fall in general, if it was not for a great 
river, by the side of which our road lay, and which takes its 



292 



BARRY 



rise near Mount Cenis, and tumbles* and cascades all the 
way through rocks and precipices, into France. You may 
conceive how high its source must be by this observation, 
(which I think is pretty just), that in every hundred yards 
taken one with another, it cascades near twenty feet at least ; 
then taking in the length of the way, you will believe me much 
nearer heaven upon Mount Cenis than I was before, or shall 
probably be again for some time. We passed this mountain 
on Sunday last, and about seven in the morning were near 
the top of the road over it, on both sides of which the moun- 
tain rises to a very great height ; yet so high were we in the 
valley between them, (where there is a fine and large lake), 
that the moon, which was above the horizon of the moun- 
tains, appeared at least five times as big as usual, and much 
more distinctly marked than I ever saw it through some very 
good telescopes. The mountains, sea, &c, were so evident, 
their lines of separation so traceable, that I would actually 
have stopped the mule to have made a drawing of them, if I 
had not been in some apprehensions of a troop of Savoyard 
soldiers, who were at that time passing, and would doubtless 
have taken me up as a spy and a dangerous person. I was 
more than once cautioned how I let any of these people see 
me drawing, at which I was constantly employed all the way. 
My friend Barret * was exceedingly out in his notions of 
Savoy and the Alpine country. The drawings he saw of 

* Barret, who, like Barry, was an Irishman, having been born in Dublin 
in 1728, had been introduced by Burke to the Earl of Powerscourt, and 
passed a large portion of his youth in painting the scenery about that noble- 
man's beautiful domain. He died in 1789. Rejecting the repeated exhor- 
tations of Burke to study pictures, Barret devoted himself to the study of 
nature ; and to his most successful landscapes he is thought to have imparted 
the true colour of English scenery. The vernal freshness of our climate was 
represented by his pencil with peculiar fidelity. His best work is at Norbury 
Park, where one "large room is painted with a continued scene entirely 
round." Friendship aided art in the completion of this picture. Unfortunately 
for the permanence of Barret's reputation, his colours, originally selected for 
their beauty and richness, soon began to fade, and the distinguishing charm 
of his pencil is every day losing more of its power 



TO BURKE. 293 

them might be, as lie said, bird's-eye views; but had he 
been here himself, he would have made a very different work 
of it; he would have seen, as I did, for above five days 
together, the most awful and horridly grand, romantic, and 
picturesque scenes, that it is possible to conceive ; he would 
say everything else was but bauble and boy's play, compared 
with them. All this tract, down to Grenoble, one sees, was 
the country Salvator Rosa formed himself upon; nobody 
esteems Salvator more than I do, yet I must say, he has not 
made half the use of it he might have done ; the wild forms 
of his trees, rocks, &c. (for which he is condemned as frantic, 
by some cold, spiritless artists, whose notions reach no further 
than the artificial regular productions of their own climes), 
are infinitely short of the noble phrensy in which nature 
wantons all over those mountains ; great pines, of the most 
inconceivable diversity of forms, some straight as arrows, 
others crooked as a horn, some the roots uppermost, are 
hanging over frightful rocks and caves, and torrents of water 
rolling amongst them. 

But I should lose myself in attempting to speak of them, 
and shall reserve for the colour and canvass, the observations 
I have made. Though in the best hands, any of these views, 
painted singly, must fail in its effect, in comparison of the 
reality, where the continued succession of them leads on, and 
enhances the operation. One thing by the way, the people 
are just the species of figures for such a landscape ; though I 
believe they may be honest, as they are said to be, yet every 
countenance has that ferocity and assassin look, which Salva- 
tor Rosa has so truly, and so agreeably to the costume, 
introduced into his pictures. Lest you may be tired with 
the length of this letter, I shall keep the king's collection at 
Turin, and other things, for the next ; and am, my dear sir, 
your's and the family's, with great respect and sincerity, 

J. B. 



294 



LETTER LXXVI. 

Cowper to the Rev. John Newton. — An Epistle 
in Rhyme. 

Cowper, in one of his letters, complained to Mr. Newton of the 
wanderings of his mind ; his friend acknowledged a similar weak- 
ness ; — " Yes," replied the poet, " bnt you have always a serious 
thought standing at the door, like a justice of peace, with the riot- 
act in his hand, ready to disperse the mob." Cowper's correspon- 
dence with Newton presents few specimens of this delightful badi- 
nage. He loved and respected, but he also feared his friend. 



My very dear friend, July 12, 1781. 

I am going to send, what when you have read, you 
may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody 
knows, whether what I have got, be verse or not; by the 
tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did 
you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before ? The 
thought did occur, to me and to her, as madam and I, did 
walk and not fly, over the hills and dales, with spreading 
sails, before it was dark to Weston Park. 

The news at Oney is little or noney; but such as it is, I 
send it, viz. : Poor Mr. Peace cannot yet cease, addling his 
head with what you said, and has left parish -church quite in 
the lurch, having almost swore to go there no more. 

Page and his wife, that made such a strife, we met them 
twain in Dog-lane; we gave them the wall, and that was all. 
For Mr. Scott, we have seen him not, except as he pass'd, in 
a wonderful haste, to see a friend in Silver End. Mrs. Jones 
proposes, ere July closes, that she and her sister, and her 
Jones mister, and we that are here, our course shall steer, to 
dine in the Spinney; but for a guinea, if the weather should 
hold, so hot and so cold, "we had better by far, stay where we 
are. For the grass there grows, while nobody mows, (which 



COWPER TO REV. J. NEWTON. 295 

is very wrong,) so rank and long, that so to speak, 'tis at 
least a week, if it happens to rain, ere it dries again. 

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I 
could, in hopes to do good; and if the Reviewer should say 
" to be sure, the gentleman's Muse, wears methodist shoes; 
you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she 
and her bard have little regard, for the taste and fashions, 
and ruling passions, and hoidening play, of the modern day; 
and though she assume a borrowed plume, and here and there 
wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan, to catch if she can, the 
giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production, on a 
new construction. She has baited her trap in hopes to snap 
all that may come, with a sugar-plum." 

His opinion in this, will not be amiss; 'tis what I 

intend, my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks should 
read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think 
I am paid, for all I have said and all I have done, though I 
have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence, 
to the end of my sense, and by hook or crook, write another 
book, if I live and ain here, another year. I have heard 
before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs, and such 
like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you 
went in, you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air 
and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a 
deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or 
any such thing ; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what 
will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you 
still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, 



* Cowper's summer-house still exists, but his favourite Spinney was cut 
down in 1785. Writing to Newton, he said, " In one year the whole will be 
a thicket; that which was once the serpentine-walk is now in a state of 
transformation, and is already become as woody as the rest. Poplars and 
elms, without number, are springing in the turf. They are now as high as 
the knee. Before the summer is ended they will be twice as high ; and the 
growth of another season will make them trees. The desolation of the whole 
scene is such that it sunk our spirits." 



296 cowper 

till you come to an end of what I have penn'd; which that 
you may do, ere madam and you are quite worn out with 
jigging about, I take my leave, and here you receive a bow 
profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, 

W. C. 

P. S. When I concluded, doubtless you did think me 
right, as well you might, in saying what I said of Scott ; 
and then it was true, but now it is due to him to note, that 
since I wrote, himself and he has visited me. 



LETTER LXXVII. 



The Same to the Rev. William Unwin. — His 
Amusements. 

Cowper has drawn the portrait of his correspondent, in 
that letter to Lady Hesketh, Sept. 14, 1763, in which he relates 
his introduction to the Unwin family. "The son is about 
twenty-one years of age ; one of the most unreserved and amiable 
young men I ever conversed with. He is not yet arrived at that 
time of life when suspicion recommends itself to us in the form of 
wisdom, and sets everything but our own dear selves at an im- 
measurable distance from our esteem and confidence. Conse- 
quently he is known almost as soon as seen ; and having nothing 
in his heart that makes it necessary to keep it barred and bolted, 
opens it to the general view of the stranger." The young man 
had been interested by the poet's countenance, and ventured 
at length to speak to him while he was taking a solitary walk 
under a row of trees. Their conversation terminated in an 
invitation to drink tea at Mr. Unwin's upon that afternoon, and 
the friendship then commenced, continued unabated until the 
premature death of Mr. Unwin, in the flower of his age, and the 
full career of Christian activity and virtue. 



TO UNWIN. 297 

Amico Mio, Sept. 21, 1779. 

Be pleased to buy me a glazier's diamond pencil. I 
have glazed the two panes designed to receive my pine plants; 
but I cannot mend the kitchen windows, till, by the help of 
that implement, I can reduce the glass to its proper dimen- 
sions. If I were a plumber, I should be a complete glazier ; 
and possibly the happy time may come, when I shall be seen 
trudging away to the neighbouring towns with a shelf of glass 
hanging at my back. If government should impose another 
tax upon that commodity, I hardly know a business in which 
a gentleman might more successfully employ himself. A 
Chinese, of ten times my fortune, would avail himself of 
such an opportunity without scruple; and why should not I, 
who want money as much as any Mandarin in China? 
Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me so 
occupied, and would have exclaimed with rapture, " that he 
had found the Emilius who (he supposed) had subsisted only 
in his own idea." I would recommend it to you to follow 
my example. You will presently qualify yourself for the 
task, and may not only amuse yourself at home, but even 
exercise your skill in mending the church windows; which, 
as it would save money to the parish, would conduce, 
together with your other ministerial accomplishments, to 
make you extremely popular in the place. 

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. "When I first enter 
the garden in a morning, I find them perched upon a wall, 
waiting for their breakfast ; for I feed them always upon the 
gravel walk. If your wish should be accomplished, and you 
should find yourself furnished with the wings of a dove, I 
shall undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only be so good, 
if that should be the case, to announce yourself by some 
means or other. For I imagine your crop will require some- 
thing better than tares to fill it. 

Your mother and I last week made a trip in a post- 

N 



298 cowper 

chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles 
off. He understood that I did not much affect strange faces, 
and sent over his servant on purpose to inform me, that he 
was going into Leicestershire,, and that if I chose to see the 
gardens, I might gratify myself without danger of seeing 
the proprietor. I accepted the invitation, and was delighted 
with all I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens 
elegantly disposed, the hothouse in the most flourishing 
state, and the orange-trees the most captivating creatures of 
the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have the 
talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whole 
scene justice. 

Our love attends you all. 
Yours, 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXYIII. 



The Same to the Same. — Writing upon anything. 

My dear Friend, August 6, 1780. 

You like to hear from me : this is a very good reason 
why I should write. But I have nothing to say; this seems 
equally a good reason why I should not. Yet, if you had 
alighted from your horse at our door this morning, and at 
this present writing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had 
found occasion to say to me, — u Mr. Cowper, you have not 
spoken since I came in; have you resolved never to speak 
again V* it would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to the 
summons, I should plead inability as my best and only 
excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a seasonable 
piece of instruction, and reminds me of what I am very apt 
to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand, that 
a letter may be written upon anything or nothing, just as 
anything or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a 



TO UNWIN. 299 

journey before him, twenty miles in length, which he is to 
perform on foot, will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall 
set out or not, because he does not readily conceive how he 
shall ever reach the end of it ; for he knows, that by the 
simple operation of moving one foot forward first, and then 
the other, he shall be sure to accomplish it. So it is in the 
present case, and so it is in every similar case. A letter is 
written as a conversation is maintained, or a journey per- 
formed; not by preconcerted, or premeditated means, a new 
contrivance, or an invention never heard of before, — but 
merely by maintaining a progress, and resolving as a postilion 
doe», having once set out, never to stop till we reach the 
appointed end. If a man may talk without thinking, why 
may he not write upon the same terms ? A grave gentleman 
of the last century, a tie-wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, 
would say, " My good sir, a man has no right to do either." 
But it is to be hoped that the present century has nothing 
to do with the mouldy opinions of the last; and so, good Sir 
Launcelot, or Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, step into 
your picture- frame again, and look as if you thought for 
another century, and leave us moderns, in the meantime, to 
think when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else 
we might as well be dead, as you are. 

When we look back upon our forefathers, we seem to 
look back upon the people of another nation, almost upon 
creatures of another species. Their vast rambling mansions, 
spacious halls, and painted casements, the gothic porch 
smothered with honeysuckles, their little gardens and high 
walls, their box-edging, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, 
are become so entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly 
believe it possible, that a people who resembled us so little in 
their tastes, should resemble us in anything else. But in 
everything else, I suppose, they were our counterparts 
exactly; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and 
reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk-stockings, 

N 2 



300 COWPER 

lias left human nature just where it found it. The inside of 
the man, at least, has undergone no change. His passions, 
appetites, and aims, are just what they ever were. They 
wear, perhaps, a handsomer disguise than they did in days 
of yore ; for philosophy and literature will have their effect 
upon the exterior; but in every other respect a modern is 
only an ancient in a different dress. 

W. C. 



LETTER LXXIX. 



Cowper to Lady Hesketh. — Delightful anticipations 
of her Visit. — Picture of his Greenhouse. 

If the publication of the Task had procured for its author no 
other recompence than the renewal of his intercourse with his 
most attached and amiable relative, that beautiful poem would 
not have been written in vain. Lady Hesketh, in her prime, is 
said to have been a brilliant beauty, attracting every eye at Rane- 
lagh to her charms. No portrait of her has been discovered, and 
the sketch, given in Southey's edition of Cowper, will certainly 
not gratify the reader's curiosity. She was a person of lively 
feelings, and considerable accomplishments. The recovery of her 
correspondence with the poet would be one of the most interesting- 
events in the history of modern literature. But although we are 
thus deprived of any immediate acquaintance with her features or 
her mind, we may agree with Southey, in believing that, " in the 
best sense of the words, no woman can be better known than Lady 
Hesketh. She had looked upon her cousin almost as a brother in 
childhood and in youth, and many years of absence and intermitted 
intercourse, had in no degree diminished her regard for him." She 
was now in the seventh year of her widowhood ; and her own 
sorrows might, in a great measure, have accounted for her previous 
silence, if the last letter addressed to her by the poet, in 1767, 
did not offer a more satisfactory apology for it. Perusing his 
second volume, with that letter in her recollection, her heart must, 
indeed, have rejoiced at the change which had come ovei\the 
spirit of his dream. His religious sentiments were equally earnest, 



TO LADY HESKETH. 301 

but more bright and cheering ; and his affection for mankind equally 
sincere, but breathed with a more brotherly tenderness. The 
history of John Gilpin must have transported her among the 
"giggling" amusements of Southampton Row. How Cowper felt 
upon the receipt of her letter, we learn from his own pen : " When I 
came down to breakfast, and found upon the table, a letter franked 
by my uncle, and when opening that frank, I found that it contained 
a letter from you; I said within myself, — This is just as it should, 
be — we are all grown young again, "and the days that I thought I 
should see no more, are actually returned." He seemed to over- 
leap the wide and dreary interval that intervened between his 
present and his early state of existence ; and to brood, with all 
the luxury of memory, upon the commencement of his acquaint- 
ance with his cousin. Writing, in June 4 and 5, 1786, he endea- 
vours to persuade her that she will find the Westminster boy at 
Olney. " Am I not your cousin, with whom you have wandered 
hi the fields of Freemantle, and at Bevis' Mount? who used to 
read to you, laugh with you, till our sides have ached, at anything 
or nothing? And am I in these respects at all altered? You will 
not find me so ; but just as ready to laugh and to wander as you ever 
knew me. A cloud, perhaps, may come over me now and then, for 
a few hours, but from clouds I was never exempted. And are not 
you the identical cousin with whom I have performed all these 
feats ? the very Harriet whom I saw for the first time at De Grey's, 
in Norfolk Street. (It was on a Sunday, when you came with 
my uncle and aunt to drink tea Ihere, and I had dined there, and 

was just going back to Westminster .)" His greenhouse, 

as it was the only pleasant apartment he possessed, so he always 
described it to his friends with great enthusiasm and gratification, , 
and never more poetically than in a letter to Mr. Newton. " I 
might date my letter from the green-house, which we have con- 
verted into a summer parlour. The walls hung with garden-mats, 
and the floor covered with carpet ; the sun, too, in a great measure 
excluded by an awning of mats, which forbids him to shine any- 
Avhere except upon the carpet ; it affords us by far the pleasantest 
retreat in Olney. We eat, drink, and sleep where we always did ; 
but here we spend all the rest of our time, and find that the 
sound of the wind in the trees, and the singing of birds, are much 
more agreeable to our ears, than the incessant barking of dogs and 
screaming of children." 



302 COWPER 

My dearest Cousin, Olney, Feb. 9, 1786. 

I have been impatient to tell you that I am impatient 
to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my 
feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should 
have told you so by the last post, but have been so com- 
pletely occupied by this tormenting specimen, that it was 
impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday, 
that would distress and alarm him; I sent him another yester- 
day that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apolo- 
gised very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures, 
and his friend has promised to confine himself, in future, to a 
comparison of me with the original, so that (I doubt not,) we 
shall jog on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me 
tell you once more, that your kindness in promising us a 
visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again. I shall 
hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will 
show you my prospects, — the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and 
its banks, — everything that I have described. I anticipate 
the pleasure of those days not very far distant, and feel a part 
of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn ! mention it not 
for your life ! We have never had so many visitors, but we 
could easily accommodate them all, though we have received 
Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. 
My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or 
beginning of June; because before that time my greenhouse 
will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant' 
room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I 
line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats; and there 
you shall sit, with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a 
hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make 
you a bouquet of myrtle, every day. Sooner than the time I 
mention, the country will not be in complete beauty. And I 
will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance. Im- 
primis, As soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast 



TO LADY HESKETH. 303 

a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand 
a box of my making. It is the box in which have been 
lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. 
But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to 
die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cup- 
board, the work of the same author; it was once a dove-cage, 
but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which 
I also made. But a merciless servant having scrubbed it 
until it became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of 
ornament ; and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the 
left hand, at the further end of this superb vestibule, you will 
find the door of the parlour, into which I will conduct you, 
and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, unless we 
should meet her before, and where we shall be as happy as 
the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the Swan at 
Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you 
to OJney. 

My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and 
urns, and have asked him, whether he is sure it is a cask in 
which Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and 
that it will never be anything better than a cask to eternity. 
So, if the god is content with it, we must even wonder at his 
taste, and be so too. 

Adieu ! my dearest, dearest cousin. 



LETTER LXXX. 



William Wilberforce to his Sister. — A Sabbath in the 
Country. 

Mr. Wilberforce has recorded an Easter Sunday passed at 
Mr. Unwin's vicarage. He says in his Journal, — " At Stock with 
the Unwins — day delightful, out almost all of it — communicated 
— very happy." Wilberforce, who was "devoted to Cowper,', 
delighted to ramble in his footsteps through the rural scenes rounp 



304 



WILBEB FORCE 



Newport Pagnel. " It is quite classic ground to me," he wrote to 
Lord Muncaster. "I have once already, (but the day was bad, and 
I mean to do it again,) carried some cold meat to a venerable old 
oak, to which he was much attached.'* His friend, Mr. Bowdler, 
has given a pleasing sketch of him at this time. " Mr. Wilber- 
force," he says, " enjoys his parsonage, I think, as much as pos- 
sible: to say that he is happier than usual, is very bold; but 
certainly he is as happy as I ever beheld any human being. He 
carried me one day to Weston, and we wandered over many a spot 
which Cowper's feet had trod, and gazed on those scenes which 
his pen had immortalized. On another day we visited Stowe, a 
work to wonder at, for we were still in the land of poetry, and of 
music too, for Mr. Wilberforce made the shades resound with his 
voice, singing like a blackbird wherever he went." With so 
much poetical sensibility, he would naturally derive a peculiar 
gratification from the society of Cowper's favourite correspondent. 



Stock, April 16, 1786. 
About five o'clock yesterday I put myself into a post- 
chaise, and in four hours found myself safely lodged with the 
vicar of Stock. It is more than a month since I slept out of 
town, and I feel all that Milton attributes to the man who 
has been 

. . . . Long in populous city pent, 
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air. 

I scarce recollect to have spent so pleasant a day as that 
which is now nearly over. My heart opens involuntarily to 
Unwin and his wife ; I fancy I have been with them every 
day since we first became acquainted at Nottingham, and 
expand to them with all the confidence of a twelve years' 
intimacy. Can my dear sister wonder that I call on her to 
participate in the pleasure I am tasting? I know how you 
sympathize in the happiness of those you love, and I could 
not, therefore, forgive myself if I were to keep my raptures 
to myself, and not invite you to partake of my enjoyment. 
The day has been delightful. I was out before six, and made 



TO HIS SISTER. 305 

the fields my oratory, the sun shining as bright and as warm 
as at Midsummer. I think my own devotions become more 
fervent when offered in this way amidst the general chorus, 
with which all nature seems on such a morning to be swelling 
the song of praise and thanksgiving ; and, except the time 
that has been spent at church and at dinner* * * * 
and neither in the sanctuary nor at table, I trust had I a 
heart unwarmed with gratitude to the Giver of all good 
things. I have been all day basking in the sun. On any 
other day I should not have been so happy ; a sense that I 
was neglecting the duties of my situation might have inter- 
rupted the course of my enjoyments, and have taken from their 
totality; for in such a situation as mine, every moment may 
be made useful to the happiness of my fellow-creatures. But 
the Sabbath is a season of rest, in which we may be allowed 
to unbend the mind, and give a complete loose to those emo- 
tions of gratitude and admiration which a contemplation of 
the works, and a consideration of the goodness of God, cannot 
fail to excite in a mind of the smallest sensibility. And 
surely this Sabbath, of all others, is that which calls forth 
these feelings in a supreme degree ; a frame of united love 
and triumph well becomes it, and holy confidence and unre- 
strained affection. May every Sabbath be to me, and to those 
I love, a renewal of those feelings, of which the small tastes 
we have in this life should make us look forward to that 
eternal rest, which awaits the people of God, when the whole 
will be a never-ending enjoyment of those feelings of love, and 
joy, and admiration, and gratitude, which are, even in the 
limited degree we here experience them, the truest sources of 
comfort ; when these, (I say,) will dictate perpetual songs of 
thanksgiving without fear, and without satiety. My eyes 
are bad, but I could not resist the impulse I felt to call on 
you and tell you how happy I have been. 

* Something appears to have been omitted here in the transcript of the 
original M.S. 

N 3 



306 LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD 



LETTER LXXXI. 



Lord Edward Fitzgerald to his Mother. — A Night- 
Scene in an American Forest. 

The history of this unfortunate and misguided nobleman 
has caused many tears to flow upon the annals of Ireland. 
While his public career must ever lie open to censure, his private 
character shines with unsullied beauty. He was an affectionate 
son, a tender father, and a steadfast friend. In the duties of 
social life, the charm of his temper developed itself. His 
letters have not been praised by his biographer more than they 
deserve. The verses, quoted by Moore from Beaumont and 
Fletcher, are happily descriptive of their pleasant and unaffected 
simplicity : — 

There's no art in 'em, 
They lie disordered on the paper, just 
As hearty nature speaks 'em. 

The following account of a halting in an American wilderness 
is one of the most interesting in the collection. " The quiet and 
affecting picture," remarks Mr. Moore, "of an evening in the woods, 
detailed with such natural eloquence, affords one of those instances 
in which a writer may be said to be a poet without knowing it." 



St. Johns, New Brunswick, July 8, 1788. 
My dearest Mother, 

Here I am, after a very long and fatiguing journey. 
I had no idea of what it was : it was more like a campaign 
than any thing else, except in one material point, that of 
having no danger. I should have enjoyed it most completely 
but for the mosquitos, but they took off a great deal of my 
pleasure; the millions of them are dreadful: if it had not 
been for this inconvenience, my journey would have been 
delightful. The country is almost all in a state of nature, as 
well as its inhabitants. There are four sorts of these, — the 
Indians, the French, the old English settlers, and now the 



TO HIS MOTHER. 307 

refugees, from the other parts of America : the last seem the 
most civilized. The old settlers are almost as wild as Indians, 
but lead a very comfortable life : they are all farmers, and live 
entirely within themselves. They supply all their own wants 
by their contrivances, so that they seldom buy anything. They 
ought to be the happiest people in the world, but they do not 
seem to know it. They imagine themselves poor because 
they have no money, without considering they do not want 
it; everything is done by barter, and you will often find a 
farmer well supplied with everything, and yet not having a 
shilling in money. Any man that will work is sure, in a 
few years, to have a comfortable farm: the first eighteen 
months is the only hard time, and that in most places is 
avoided, particularly near the rivers, for in every one of them 
a man will catch in a day enough to feed him for the year. 
In the winter, with very little trouble, he supplies himself 
with meat by killing moose-deer; and in summer with 
pigeons, of which the woods are full. These he must subsist 
on till he has cleared ground enough to raise a little grain, 
which a hard-workino- man will do in the course of a few 
months. By selling his moose-skins, by making sugar out of 
the maple-tree, and by a few days' work for other people, for 
which he gets great wages, he soon acquires enough to pur- 
chase a cow. This, then, sets him up, and he is sure, in a 
few years, to have a comfortable supply of every necessary 
of life. I came through a whole tract of country peopled 
by Irish, who came out not worth a shilling, and have all 
now farms, worth (according to the value of money in 
this country,) from 1000/. to 3000Z. The equality of every- 
body, and their manner of life, I like very much. There 
are no gentlemen; everybody is on a footing, provided he 
works, and wants nothing ; every man is exactly what he 
makes himself, or has made himself by industry. The more 
children a man has the better ; the father has no uneasiness 
about providing for them, as this is done by the profit of their 



308 LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD 

work. By the time they care fit to settle, he can always afford 
them two oxen, a cow, a gun, and an axe, and, in a few years, 
if they work, they will thrive. I came by a settlement along 
one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair ; the old 
man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy : they had been 
there thirty years; they came there with one cow, three chil- 
dren, and one servant; there was not a being within sixty miles 
of them. The first year they lived mostly on milk and marsh 
leaves ; the second year they contrived to purchase a bull, by 
the produce of their moose skins and fish : from this time 
they got on very well; and there are now five sons and a 
daughter, all settled in different farms along the river for the 
space of twenty miles, and all living comfortably and at ease. 
The old pair live alone in the little old cabin they first settled 
in, two miles from any of their children ; their little spot of 
ground is cultivated by these children, and they are supplied 
with so much butter, grain, meal, &c, from each child, 
according to the share he got of the land, so that the old folks 
have nothing to do but to mind their house, which is a kind 
of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of the 
few travellers there are, than for gain. I was obliged to stay 
a day with the old people, on account of the tides, which did 
not answer for going up the river till next morning : it was, 
I think, as odd and as pleasant a day (in its way,) as ever I 
pajssed. I wish I could describe it to you, but I cannot ; you 
must only help it out with your own imagination. Conceive, 
dearest mother, arriving about twelve o'clock in a hot day at a 
little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks all covered 
with wood — not a house in sight, and there finding a little 
clean, tidy woman, spinning, with an old man, of the same 
appearance, weeding salad. "We had come for ten miles up 
the river, without seeing any thing but woods. The old pair, 
on our arrival, got as active as if only five-and-twenty, the 
gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying eggs and 
bacon, both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I men- 



TO HIS MOTHER. 309 

tioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how 
their children were settled, and, when either's back was 
turned, remarking how old the other had grown ; at the same 
time, all kindness, all cheerfulness, and love to each other. 
The contrast of all this, which had passed during the day, 
with the quietness of the evening, when the spirits of the old 
people had a little subsided, and began to wear off w T ith the 
day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly 
at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years 
together; the contented thoughtfulness of their countenances, 
whieh was increased by their age and the solitary life they 
had led, the wild quietness of the place, not a living creature 
or habitation to be seen, and me, Tony, and our guide, sitting 
with them all on one log; the difference of the scene I had 
left, — the immense way I had to get from this corner of the 
world, to see anything I loved, — the difference of the life I 
should lead from that of this old pair, perhaps, at their age, 
discontented, disappointed, and miserable, wishing for power, 
&c, — my dearest mother, if it was not for you, I believe I 
never should go home, at least I thought so at that moment. 
However, here I am with my regiment, up at six in the 
morning doing all sorts of right things, and liking it very 
much, determined to go home next spring, and live with you 
a great deal. Employment keeps up my spirits, and I shall 
have more every day. I own I often think how happy I 

should be with G in some of the spots I see ; and envied 

every young farmer I met, whom I saw sitting down with a 
young wife whom he was going to work to maintain. I 
believe these thoughts made my journey pleasanter than it 
otherwise would have been; but I don't give way to them 
here. Dearest mother, I sometimes hope it will end well ; 
but shall not think any more of it till I hear from England. 
Tell Ogilvie I am obliged sometimes to say to myself, Tu Pas 
■voulu, George Dandin, when I find things disagreeable, but, 
on the whole, I do not repent coming ; he wont believe me, 



310 LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD TO HIS MOTHER. 

I know. He will be in a fine passion when he finds I should 
have been lieutenant-colonel for the regulated price, if I had 
stayed in the sixtieth ; however, as fate seems to destine me 
for a major, I am determined to remain and not purchase. 
Give my love to him ; I wish I could give him some of the 
wood here for Kilrush. 



LETTER LXXXII. 



Charles James Fox to Gilbert Wakefield. — The cha- 
racter of Cicero's Eloquence. — Genius of Ovid. 

The most eloquent tribute to the memory of Wakefield is con- 
tained in a letter from Dr. Parr to a private friend, acknowledging 
the communication of Mr. Wakefield's death. " I loved him," he 
said, " unfeignedly, and though our opinions on various subjects, 
both of theology and criticism, were different, that difference never 
disturbed our quiet, nor relaxed our mutual good will. For my 
part," he added, " I shall ever think and ever speak of Mr. Wake- 
field as a very profound scholar, as a most honest man, and as a 
Christian, who united knowledge with zeal, piety with benevo- 
lence, and the simplicity of a child with the fortitude of a martyr." 
From this eulogy some deductions may be properly made ; for 
Parr knew no middle path, either of censure or of praise. But 
with all his errors, both of religion and scholarship, Wakefield was 
undoubtedly a man of genuine talent; with a heart frequently 
governed by prejudice, and a temper at once irritable and over- 
bearing. His edition of Lucretius, the second volume of which he 
inscribed to Mr. Fox, has been commended by those whose praise 
possesses an intrinsic value, and will preserve the name of a very 
original and a very eccentric scholar. 

Fox, who was particularly attached to the study of Greek lite- 
rature, shared Milton's affection for Euripides; an essay upon 
the beauties of that dramatist was one of his favourite literary pro- 
jects. He agreed with Milton, also, in his admiration of Ovid, a 
writer, neglected at our colleges and our schools, but surpassing all 
the Latin poets in playfulness and brilliancy of imagination ; more 
inventive than Virgil, more tender than Claudian, more earnest 



CHARLES JAMES FOX TO GILBERT WAKEFIELD. 311 

than Tibullus. Dryden praises the prodigality of his wit, by 
which he meant the fertility of allusion, and ingenuity of applica- 
tion, which we discover in the pages of Moore. His defects flow 
out of his luxuriance; and his fancy often runs into grotesque 
shapes from the very richness of the vine. But Ovid is not only 
the picturesque embellisher of sentiments ; Dryden acknowledged 
his power in moving the passions ; and no person can read his allu- 
sion to the death of his parents without confessing that the com- 
mendation was deserved. 



Sir, St. Anne's Hill, Oct. 22, 1799. 

I believe I had best not continue the controversy about 
field sports; or at least, if I do, I must have recourse, I believe, 
to authority and precedent, rather than to argument, and 
content myself with rather excusing, than justifying them. 
Cicero says, I believe, somewhere, Si quern nihil ddectaret 
nisi quod cum laude et dignitate conjunctum foret, . . . huic 
homini ego fortasse, et pauci, Deos propitios, plerique iratos 
putarent. But this is said, I am afraid, in defence of a liber- 
tine, whose public principles, when brought to the test, 
proved to be as unsound as his private life was irregular. 
By the way, I know no speech of Cicero's more full of beau- 
tiful passages than this is, {pro M. Coelio,) nor where he is 
more in his element. Argumentative contention is what he 
by no means excels in; and he is never, I think, so happy, as 
when he has an opportunity of exhibiting a mixture of phi- 
losophy and pleasantry; and especially, where he can inter- 
pose anecdotes, and references to the authority of the eminent 
characters in the history of his country. No man appears, 
indeed, to have had such real respect for authority as he; and, 
therefore, when he speaks on that subject, he is always 
natural and in earnest; and not like those among us, who are 
so often declaiming about the wisdom of our ancestors, with- 
out knowing what they mean, or hardly ever citing any par- 
ticulars of their conduct, or of their dicta. 

I showed your proposed alteration in the Tristia to a very 



312 CHARLES JAMES FOX TO GILBERT WAKEFIELD. 

good judge, who approved of it very much. I confess, my- 
self, that I like the old reading best, and think it more in 
Ovid's manner; but this, perhaps, is mere fancy. I have 
always been a great reader of him, and thought myself the 
greatest admirer he had, till you called him the first poet of 
antiquity, which is going even beyond me. The grand and 
spirited style of the Iliad; the true nature and simplicity of 
the Odyssey; the poetical language (far excelling that of all 
other poets in the world,) of the Georgics, and the pathetic 
strokes in the JEneid, give Homer and Virgil a rank, in my 
judgment, clearly above all competitors; but next after them 
I should be very apt to class Ovid, to the great scandal, I 
believe, of all who pique themselves upon what is called 
purity of taste. You have somewhere compared him to 
Euripides, I think ; and I can fancy I see a resemblance in 
them. This resemblance it is, I suppose, which makes one 
prefer Euripides to Sophocles ; a preference which, if one 
were writing a dissertation, it would be very difficult to 
justify. 

I cannot conceive upon what principle, or, indeed, from 
what motive, they have so restricted the intercourse between 
you and your family. My first impulse was, to write to 
Lord Ilchester to speak to Mr. Frampton; but as you seem to 
suspect that former applications have done mischief, I shall do 
nothing. Did you, who are such a hater of war, ever read the 
lines at the beginning of the second book of Cowper's Task? 
There are few things in our language superior to them, in my 
judgment. He is a fine poet, and has, in a great degree, con- 
quered my prejudices against blank verse. I am, with great 
regard, Sir, Your most obedient servant, 

C. J. Fox. 
My hand is not yet so well as to give me the use of it, 
though the wound is nearly healed. The surgeon suspects 
there is more bone to come away. I have been here some- 
thing more than a fortnight. 



CHARLES JAMES FOX TO MR. GREY. 313 



LETTER LXXXIII. 

The Same to Mr. Grey. — The Note of the 
Nightingale. 

Among the schemes of intellectual exertion which presented 
themselves to the mind of Fox, during his repose from the excite- 
ment of politics and party, were treatises on Poetry, History, and 
Oratory ; an edition of the works of Dry den ; and a Defence of 
Racine, whom he appears to have admired with the enthusiasm of 
Gray. But Fox, although the most fluent of speakers, was the 
slowest and most cautious of writers. He confessed that he was 
too scrupulous about language. The Fragment upon the History 
of James the Second, disappointed the curiosity its appearance had 
awakened. His published correspondence, however, displays the 
kindliness of his heart, the elegance of his taste, and the cultivation 
of his mind. Lord Holland has printed one of his familiar letters, 
which is not more interesting in itself, than valuable as an illustra- 
tion of character. The reader should refer to the " Observations" 
upon this letter, appended to the History of the Reign of James, 
where the opinion of Mr. Fox respecting the Nightingale, is very 
ingeniously examined and refuted. 



Dear Grey, 

In defence of my opinion about the nightingales, I 
find Chaucer, who of all poets seems to have been the fondest 
of the singing of birds, calls it a merry note ; and though 
Theocritus mentions nightingales six or seven times, he never 
mentions their note as plaintive or melancholy. It is true, 
he does not call it anywhere merry, as Chaucer does ; but by 
mentioning it with the song of the blackbird, and as answer- 
ing it, he seems to imply that it was a cheerful note. So- 
phocles is against us; but even he says, "lamenting/^," and 
the comparison of her to Electra, is rather as to perseverance 
day and night, than as to sorrow. At all events, a tragic 
poet is not half so good authority in this question, as Theo- 
critus and Chaucer. I cannot light upon the passage in the 



314 CHARLES JAMES FOX TO MR GREY. 

Odyssey*, where Penelope's restlessness is compared to the 
nightingale ; but I am sure that it is only as to restlessness 
that he makes the comparison. If you will read the last 
twelve books of the Odyssey, you will certainly find it ; and 
I am sure you will be paid for your hunt, whether you find 
it or not. The passage in Chaucer is in the Flower and 
Leaf, p. 99. The one I particularly allude to in Theocritus, 
is in his Epigrams, I think in the fourth. Dryden has 
transferred the word merry to the goldfinch in the Flower 
and the Leaf; in deference, may be, to the vulgar error ; but 
pray read his description of the nightingale there: it is quite 
delightful. I am afraid that I like these researches as much 
better than those that relate to Shaftesbury, Sunderland, &c, 
as I do those better than attending the House of Commons. 
Yours affectionately, 

C. J. Fox. 



LETTER LXXXIV. 



Bishop Home to a Lady, upon the sudden death 
of her Father. 

We might naturally expect to derive both delight and im- 
provement from the familiar correspondence of the author of the 
Commentary on the Psalms ; a very small portion of it, however, 
has been published. His letter to Adam Smith, upon the charac- 
ter and writings of Hume, is written with great vivacity and 
humour t. Bishop Home disliked those frivolous and un- 

* The passage is in Od. xix. 515. 

t " One of the severest reflections that ever came from the pen of Dr. 
Home, was aimed, as I suppose, at this Mr. David Hume ; yet it is all very 
fair. This philosopher had observed, that all the devout persons he had ever 
met with, were melancholy ; which is thus answered : ' This might very 
probably be, for, in the first place, it is most likely that he saw very few, his 
friends and acquaintance being of another sort; and secondly, the sight of 
him would make a devout person melancholy at any time.'" — Life by Jones, 
p. 127. 



BISHOP HORNE TO A LADY. 315 

profitable studies which pass under the name of metaphysical 
inquiries. It is a science, he said, that seems never to have been of 
service to true religion, but only to have obscured and darkened 
all its truths, and thereby rendered them a more easy prey to the 
adversary. May it not, he added, be compared to the mist or fog, 
described by Homer, as spread over the tops of the hills — 

Tlotfxecnv ovtl (ptkrjv, K\e7TTr] re vvktos afxetvcd. — 77. iii. 11. 

But I have preferred to exhibit him in his more natural and 
engaging character of a Christian friend ; consoling the mourner 
by his sympathy, and enlivening her faith by his pastoral exhor- 
tation. 



Canterbury, Nov. 11. 
My dear Madam, 

Little did I think a letter from would afflict my 

soul; but your's received this morning has indeed done it. 
Seeing your hand, and a black seal, my mind foreboded what 
had happened. I made an attempt to read it to my wife and 
daughter, but it would not do. I got no further than the 
first sentence, burst into a flood of tears, and was obliged to 
retreat into the solitude of my study, unfit for any thing but 
to think on what had happened; then to fall upon my knees, 
and pray that God would evermore pour down his choicest 
blessings on the children of my departed friend ; and as their 
" father and their mother had forsaken them," that He would 
"take them up," and support them in time and eternity. 
Even so, Amen. 

You ask comfort of me, but your truly excellent letter 
has suggested comfort to me from all the proper topics ; and 
I can Only reflect it back to you again. All things considered, 
the circumstance which first marked the disorder, may be 
termed a gracious dispensation. It at once rendered the event, 
one may say, desirable, which otherwise carried so much 
terror and sorrow in the face of it. Nothing else in the 
world could so soon and so effectually have blunted the edo-e of 



316 BISHOP IIORNE TO A LADY. 

the approaching calamity, and reconciled to it minds full of 
the tenderest love and affection. To complete the consolation, 
that only remained, which we all know to be the fact ; Mr. 
stood always so prepared, so firm in his faith *, so con- 
stant in his Christian practice of every duty, that he could 
not be taken by surprise, or off his guard : the stroke must 
be to himself a blessing, whenever, or however, it came. His 
death was as his birth-day t ; and, like the primitive Chris- 
tians, we should keep it as such, as a day of joy and triumph. 
Bury his body, but embalm his example, and let it diffuse 
his fragrance among you from generation to generation; call 
him blessed, and endeavour to be like him — like him in piety, 
in charity, in friendship, in courteousness, in temper, in con- 
duct, in word, and in deed. His virtues compose a little 
volume, which your brother should carry in his bosom ; and • 
he will need no other, if that be well studied, to make him 
the gentleman and the Christian. You, my dear madam, 
will, I am sure, go on with diligence, to finish the fair 
transcript you have begun, that the world around you may 
see and admire. 

Do not apologize for writing; but let me hear what you 
do, and what plan of life your brother thinks of pursuing. 
"With kindest compliments from the sympathising folks here, 
believe me ever, my dear madam, your faithful friend and 
servant. , 

* " When sickness and sorrow come upon a Christian, 'and order him to 
prepare for death, he should be able to say, in the words of ^Eneas, — 
Nulla mihi nova nunc facies inopinaque surgit. 
Omnia prsecepi, atque animo mecum ante peregi." — ^En. lib. vi. 104. 

Bishop Home's Essays and Thoughts. 
t " It was a saying among the Brahmans, that our life ought to be con- 
sidered as a state of conception, and death as a birth to a true and happy life. 
The thought seems just, and capable, on the Christian plan, of being im- 
proved into a curious and useful speculation."— Bishop Home's Essays and 
Thoughts on Various Subjects, Works, vol. i., p. 303, ed. of 1809. 



31' 



LETTER LXXXY. 

Dr. Parr to Mr. Thomas Moore. — The boyhood 
of Sheridan. 

Every Harrovian points with pride to the name of Sheridan, 
cut in the old hall of that venerahle school. Nor is he unde- 
serving of the distinction, Byron said that whatever he did, (or 
chose to do,) was always the best of its kind : he wrote the best 
comedy, the School for Scandal; the best opera, the Duenna; the 
best farce, the Critic; and delivered the most famous oration of 
modern times. No history ever contained a more touching moral 
than the narrative of the actions and the misfortunes of Sheridan. 
With talents that might have dignified the highest station, he 
nevertheless sank into the most harassing 'difficulties; and with 
a disposition naturally generous and affectionate, he was continually 
outraging every principle of justice and of truth. He lived in the 
blaze of society, and died in the solitude of neglect. 



Dear Sir, Hatton, Aug. 3, 1818. 

"With the aid of a scribe, I sit down to fulfil my promise 
about Mr. Sheridan. There was little in his boyhood worth 
communicating. He w T as inferior to many of his schoolfellows 
in the ordinary business of a school; and I do not remember 
any one instance in which he distinguished himself by Latin 
or English composition, in prose or verse. Nathaniel Halhed*, 
one of his schoolfellows, wrote well in Latin and Greek. 

* Sheridan's intimacy with Halhed was resumed after they" had quitted 
Harrow, one for Oxford, and the other for his father's residence at Bath. 
" There is something in the alliance between these hoys," says Mr. Moore, 
" peculiarly interesting. Their united ages, as Halhed boasts in one of his 
letters, did not amount to thirty-eight. They were both abounding in wit 
and spirits, and as sanguine as the consciousness of youth and talent could 
make them; both inspired with a taste for pleasure, and thrown upon their 
own resources for the means of gratifying it: both carelessly embarking, 
without rivalry or reserve, their venture of fame on the same bottom, and 
both, as Halhed discovered at last, passionately in love with the same 
woman." But though their projects were numerous, the only production 
of their literary alliance was the translation of Aristoenetus. 



318 DR. PARR 

Richard Archdall, another school-fellow, excelled in English 
verse. Richard Sheridan aspired to no rivalry with either of 
them. He was at the uppermost part of the fifth form, but 
he never reached the sixth, and, if I mistake not, he had no 
opportunity of attending the most difficult, and the most 
honourable part of school-business, when the Greek plays were 
taught, — and it was the custom at Harrow to teach these, at 
least every year. He went through his lessons in Horace, 
and Virgil, and Homer well enough, for a time. But, in the 
absence of the upper master, Dr. Sumner, it once fell in my 
way to instruct the two upper forms, and upon calling up 
Dick Sheridan, I found him not only slovenly in constru- 
ing, but unusually defective in his Greek grammar. Knowing 
him to be a clever fellow, I did not fail to probe and teaze 
him. I stated his case with great good-humour to the upper 
master, who was one of the best-tempered men in the world ; 
and it was agreed between us that Richard should be called 
oftener, and worked more severely. The varlet was not 
suffered to stand up in his place ; but was summoned to take 
his station near the master s table, where the voice of no 
prompter could reach him; and in this defenceless condition, 
he was so harassed, that he at last gathered up some gram- 
matical rules, and prepared himself for his lessons. While 
this tormenting process was inflicted upon him, I now and 
then upbraided him. But you will take notice, that he did 
not incur any corporal punishment for his idleness ; his indus- 
try was just sufficient to protect him from disgrace; all the 
while Sumner and I saw in him vestiges of superior intellect. 
His eye, his countenance, his general manner, were striking. 
His answers to any common question were prompt and acute. 
"We knew the esteem, and even admiration, which, somehow 
or other, all his school fellows felt for him. He was mis- 
chievous enough, but his pranks were accompanied by a sort 
of vivacity and cheerfulness, which delighted Sumner and 
myself; I had much talk with him about his apple-loft, for 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 319 

the supply of which all the gardens in the neighbourhood were 
taxed, and some of the lower boys were employed to furnish 
it. I threatened, but without asperity, to trace the depre- 
dators, through his associates, up to their leader. He, with 
perfect good humour, set me at defiance, and I never could 
bring the charge home to him. All boys and all masters 
were pleased with him. I often praised him as a lad of great 
talents, — often exhorted him to use them well; but my exhor- 
tations were fruitless. I take for granted, that his taste was 
silently improved, and that he knew well the little which 
he did know. He was removed from school too soon by his 
father, who was the intimate friend of Sumner, and whom I 
often met at his house. Sumner had a fine voice, fine ear, 
fine taste, and therefore pronunciation was frequently the 
favourite subject between him and Tom Sheridan, I was 
present at many of their discussions and disputes, and some- 
times took a very active part in them — but Richard was not 
present. The father, you know, was a wrong-headed, whim- 
sical man, and, perhaps his scanty circumstances were one of 
the reasons which prevented him from sending Richard to 
the University. He must have been aware, as Sumner and 
I were, that Richard's mind was not cast in any ordinary 
mould. I ought to have told you, that Richard, when a boy, 
was a great reader of English poetry; but his exercises 
afforded no proof of his proficiency. In truth, he, as a boy, 
was quite careless about literary fame. I should suppose 
that his father, without any regular system, polished his 
taste, and supplied his memory with anecdotes about our 
best writers in our Augustan age. The grandfather, you 
know, lived familiarly with Swift. I have heard of him as an 
excellent scholar. His boys in Ireland, once performed a 
Greek play, and when Sir William Jones and I were talking 
over this event, I determined to make the experiment in 
England. I selected some of my best boys, and they per- 
formed the (Edipus Tyrannus, and -the Trachinians of 



320 CRABBE 

Sophocles. I wrote some Greek Iambics to vindicate myself 
from the imputation of singularity, and grieved I am that I 
did not keep a copy of them. Milton, you may remember, 
recommends what I attempted. 

I saw much of Sheridan's father after the death of Sumner, 
and after my own removal from Harrow to Stanmore. I 
respected him — he really liked me, and did me some import- 
ant services, but I never»met him and Richard together. I 
often inquired about Richard, and from the father's answers, 
found they were not upon good terms; but neither he nor I 
ever spoke of his son's talents, but in terms of the highest 
praise. 



LETTER LXXXVI. 



The Poet Crabbe to Burke. — An Appeal to his 
Generosity arid Compassion. 

Mb. Crabbe's journal of his London life, extending over a 
period of three months, is one of the most affecting documents 
which ever lent an interest to biography. Arriving in the metro- 
polis in the beginning of 1800, without money, friends, or introduc- 
tions, he rapidly sank into penury and suffering. His landlord 
threatened him, and hunger and a gaol already stared him in the 
face. In this emergency, he ventured to solicit the notice of three 
individuals, eminent for station and influence. He applied to 
Lord North, Lord Shelburne, and Lord Thurlow, but without 
success. In a happy moment the name of Burke entered his 
mind, and he appealed to his sympathy in the following letter. 
The result is well known. In Burke the happy poet found not 
only a patron and a friend, but a sagacious adviser and an accom- 
plished critic. Crabbe supposed the following verses to have 
satisfied Burke of his poetical genius : he is describing Aldborough, 
his native town : — - 

Here wand'ring long, amid those frowning fields, 

I sought the simple life that nature yields ; 

Rapine, and wrong, and fear usurped her place, 

And a bold, artful, surly, savage race. 



TO BURKE. 321 

Who only skilled to take the finny tribe, 

The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, 

Wait on the shore, and as the waves run high, 

On the lost vessel bend their eager eye, 

Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way, 

Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. 

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, 

And wait for favouring winds to leave the land ; 

While still for flight the ready wing is spread, 

So waited I, the favouring hour, and fled ; 

Fled from those shores where guilt and rapine reign, 

And cried, ah ! hapless they who still remain, — 

Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 

Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore, 

Till some fierce tide, with more superior sway, 

Sweeps the low hut, and all it holds, away; 

When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, 

And begs a poor protection from the poor. 

During Crabbe's visit to Sir Walter Scott, at Edinburgh, he was 
almost constantly in the company of Mr. Lockhart, who has commu- 
nicated to the poet's son some interesting anecdotes respecting him, 
and one especially, relating to his sojourn in London, — " He told us, 
that during many months, when he was toiling in early life in London, 
he hardly ever tasted butcher's meat, except on a Sunday, when 
he dined, usually, with a tradesman's family, and thought their 
leg of mutton, baked in a pan, the perfection of luxury. The tears 
stood in his eyes, while he talked of Burke's kindness to him in 
his distress ; and, I remember, he said, * The night after I deli- 
vered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of agitation, that 
I walked Westminster Bridge backwards and forwards until 
day-light.* " 



Sir, 

I am sensible that I need even your talents to apolo- 
gize for the freedom I now take ; but I have a plea which, 
however, simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, sir, 
procure me pardon : I am one of those outcasts on the world, 
who are without a friend, without employment, and without 
bread. 



322 CRABBE 

Pardon me a snort preface. I had a partial father, who 
gave me a better education than his broken fortune would 
have allowed; and a better than was necessary, as he could 
give me that only. I was designed for the profession of 
physic; but not having wherewithal to complete the requisite 
studies, the design but served to convince me of a parent's 
affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last, I 
came to London, with three pounds, and flattered myself this 
would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries 
of life, till my abilities should procure me more ; of these I 
had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to 
my delusion. I. knew little of the world, and had read books 
only. I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions; 
when I wanted bread, they promised me affluence, and 
soothed me with dreams of reputation, whilst my appearance 
subjected me to contempt. Time, reflection, and want, have 
shown me my mistake. I see my trifles in that which I think 
the true light ; and, whilst I deem them such, have yet the 
opinion that holds them superior to the common run of 
poetical publications. 

I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the 
brother of Lord Rochford ; in consequence of which, I asked 
his lordship's permission to inscribe my little work to him. 
Knowing it to be free from all political allusions and personal 
abuse, it was no very material point to me to whom it 
was dedicated. His Lordship thought it none to him, and 
obligingly consented to my request. 

I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable 
method for me, and therefore endeavoured to circulate copies 
of the inclosed proposals. 

I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this very dull narra- 
tion, but believe me punished in the misery that occasions it. 
You will conclude, that, during this time, I must have been 
at more expense than I could afford ; indeed, the most parsi- 
monious could not have avoided it. The printer deceived 



TO BURKE. 323 

me, and my little business lias had every delay. The people 
with whom I live, perceive my situation, and find me to be 
indigent and without friends. About ten days since, I was 
compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to avoid an arrest 
for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to every 
friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise ; the time of 
payment approached, and I ventured to represent my case to 
Lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till I 
received it of my subscribers, which I believe will be within 
one month ; but to this letter I had no reply, and I have 
probably offended by my importunity. Having used every 
honest means in vain, I yesterday confessed my inability, 
and obtained, with much entreaty, and as the greatest favour, 
a week's forbearance, when I am positively told, that I must 
pay the money, or prepare for a prison. 

You will guess the purpose of so long an introduction. I 
appeal to you, sir, as a good, and, let me add, a great man. I 
have no other pretensions to your favour than that I am an 
unhappy one. It is not easy to support- the thoughts of con- 
finement ; and I am coward enough to dread such an end to 
my suspense. 

Can you, sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety I "Will 
you ask any demonstrations of my veracity ? I have imposed 
upon myself, but I have been guilty of no other imposition. 
Let me, if possible, interest your compassion. I know those 
of rank and fortune are teased with frequent petitions, and 
are compelled to refuse the requests even of those whom they 
know to be in distress : it is, therefore, with a distant hope I 
ventured to solicit such favour; but you will forgive me, sir, 
if you do not think proper to relieve. It is impossible that 
sentiments like yours can proceed from any but a humane and 
generous heart. 

I will call upon you, sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the 
happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my 
fate. My existence is pain to myself, and every one near and 

o 2 



324 CRABBE TO BURKE. 

dear to me, are distressed in my distresses. My connexions, 
once the source of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my 
fortune ; and I have only to hope a speedy end to a life so 
unpromi singly begun : in which (though it ought not to be 
boasted of), I can reap some consolation from looking to the 
end of it. I am, sir, with the greatest respect, your obedient 
and most humble servant, 

George Crabbe. 



LETTER LXXXVII. 



Lord Byron to his Mother. — Turkish Scenery ; 
Visit to Ali Pacha. 

Lord Byron's journey through Albania, and other districts of 
Turkey — a portion of which is related in this animated and cha- 
racteristic letter — has been more copiously described by the poet's 
friend and fellow-traveller Sir John Hobhouse. When Byron 
wrote to his mother, he had begun the composition of his great 
poem about twelve days, having himself recorded its commence- 
ment at Ioannina, October 31, 1809. The picture of the Pacha's 
residence at Tepaleen, will recall the beautiful stanzas in Childe 
Harold, which are, indeed, only a poetical amplification of it : — 

Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 

While busy preparation shook the court ; 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 

Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

Richly caparison' d, a ready row 

Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below : 

Above, strange groups adorn' d the corridore ; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing door 

Some high-capp'd Tartar spurred his steed away. 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 

Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. 



LORD BYRON TO HIS MOTHER. 325 

The wild Albanian, kirtled to his knee, 

With shawl-girt head, and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroidered garments fair to see : 

The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon, 
And Delhi with his cap of terror on, 

And crooked glaive : the lively, supple Greek, 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son : 

The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

Are mix'd conspicuous ; some recline in groups, 

Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There, some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 

And some that smoke, and some that play, are found • 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground. 

Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the Mosque the nightly solemn sound, 

The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no God, but God ! — to prayer — lo, God is great !"" 

Childe Harold, Canto II. 



Prevesa, November 12, 1809. 
My dear Mother, 

I have now been some time in Turkey; this place is 

on the coast, but I have traversed the interior of the province 

of Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left Malta in the 

Spider, a brig of war, on the 21st of September, and arrived 

in eight days at Prevesa. I thence have been about one 

hundred and fifty miles, as far as Tepaleen, his highness* 

country palace, where I stayed three days. The name of 

the Pacha is Ali, and he is considered a man of the first 

abilities; he governs the whole of Albania, (the ancient 

Illyricum,) Epirus, and part of Macedonia. His son, Vely 

Pacha, to whom he has given me letters, governs the Morea, 

and has great influence in Egypt ; in short, he is one of the 

most powerful men in the Ottoman empire. When I reached 

Yanina, the capital, after a journey of three days over the 

mountains, through a country of the most picturesque beauty, 



326 LORD BYRON 

I found that Ali Pacha was with his army in Illyricum 
besieging Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of Berat. He had 
heard that an Englishman of rank was in his dominions, 
and had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to pro- 
vide a house, and supply me with every kind of necessary, 
gratis; and though I have been allowed to make presents 
to the slaves, &c, I have not been permitted to pay for a 
single article of household consumption. 

I rode out on the Vizier's horses, and saw the palaces of 
himself and grandsons. They are splendid, but too much 
ornamented with silk and gold. I then went over the moun- 
tains through Zitza, a village with a Greek monastery (where 
I slept on my return), in the most beautiful situation (always 
excepting Cintra in Portugal), I ever beheld. In nine days 
I reached Tepaleen ; our journey was much prolonged by the 
torrents that had fallen from the mountains, and intersected 
the roads. I shall never forget the singular scene on entering 
Tepaleen, at five in the afternoon, as the sun was going down. 
It brought to my mind, (with some change of dress, how- 
ever,) Scott's description of Branksome Castle in his Lay, and 
the feudal system. 

The Albanians in their dresses, (the most magnificent in 
the world, consisting of a long white kilt, gold- worked cloak, 
crimson velvet gold-laced jacket and waistcoat, silver-mounted 
pistols and daggers,) the Tartars with their high caps, the 
Turks in their vast pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and 
black slaves with the horses, the former in groups in an 
immense large open gallery in front of the palace, the latter 
placed in a kind of cloister below it ; two hundred steeds 
ready caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers entering or 
passing with despatches, the kettle-drums beating, boys 
calling the hour from the minaret of the mosque, altogether 
with the singular appearance of the building itself, formed a 
new and delightful spectacle to a stranger. I was conducted 
to a very handsome apartment, and my health inquired after 



TO HIS MOTHER. 327 

by the Vizier's secretary, u a-la-mode Turque." The next day 
I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I was dressed in a full suit 
of staff uniform, with a very magnificent sabre, &c. The 
Vizier received me in a large room paved with marble ; a 
fountain was playing in the centre; the apartment was sur- 
rounded by scarlet ottomans. He received me standing, a 
wonderful compliment from a Mussulman, and made me sit 
down on his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for 
general use ; but a physician of AH's, named Femlario, who 
understands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His first 
question was, why, at so early an age I left my country?— 
(the Turks have no idea of travelling.) He then said, the 
English minister, Captain Leake, had told him I was of a 
great family, and desired his respects to my mother ; which I 
now, in the name of Ali Pacha, present to you. He said he 
was certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, 
curling hair, and little white hands, and expressed himself 
pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me to con- 
sider him as a father whilst I was in Turkey, and said he 
looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me like a child, 
sending me almonds and sugared sherbet, fruit and sweet- 
meats, twenty times a-day. He begged me to visit him 
often, and at night, when he was at leisure. I then, after 
coffee and pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thrice 
afterwards. It is singular, that the Turks, who have no 
hereditary dignities, and few great families, except the Sul- 
tan's, pay so much respect to birth ; for I found my pedigree 
more regarded than my title. 

To-day I saw the remains of the town of Actium, near 
which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where two 
frigates could hardly manoeuvre ; a broken wall is the sole 
remnant. On another part of the gulf stand the ruins of 
Nicopolis, built by Augustus in honour of his victory. Last 
night I was at a Greek marriage ; but this, and a thousand 
things more; I have neither time nor space to describe. 



328 



LORD BYRON 



I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to Patras 
in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I shall winter. 
Two days ago I was nearly lost in a Turkish ship of war, 
owing to the ignorance of the captain and crew, though the 
storm was not violent. Fletcher yelled after his wife, the 
Greeks called on all the Saints, the Mussulmans on Alia ; 
the captain burst into tears, and ran below deck, telling us to 
call on God ; the sails were split, the main-yard shivered, the 
wind blowing fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance 
was to make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or, 
(as Fletcher pathetically termed it,) " a watery grave." I did 
what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incorrigible, 
wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, (an immense 
cloak,) and lay down on deck to wait the worst. I have 
learnt to philosophize in my travels, and if I had not, com- 
plaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, and only drove 
us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we landed, 
and proceeded, by the help of the natives, to Prevesa again ; 
but I shall not trust Turkish sailors in future, though the 
Pacha had ordered one of his own galliots to take me to 
Patras. I am therefore going as far as Missolonghi by land, 
and there have only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 

Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels ; we were 
one night lost for nine hours in the mountains in a thunder- 
storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both cases, Fletcher 
was sorely bewildered, from apprehensions of famine and 
banditti in the first, and drowning in the second instance. 
His eyes were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying, (I 
don't know which,) but are now recovered. When you 
write, address to me at Mr. Stranes, English Consul, Patras, 
Morea. 

I could tell you I know not how many incidents that I 
think would amuse you; but they crowd on my mind as much 
as they would swell my paper, and I can neither arrange them 
in the one, nor put them down on the other, except in the 



TO HIS MOTHER. 329 

greatest confusion. I like the Albanians much ; they are not 
all Turks : some tribes are Christians. But their religion 
makes little difference in their manner or conduct. They 
are esteemed the best troops in the Turkish service. I lived 
on my route two days at once, and three days again, in a 
barrack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, 
though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar, and Malta,, 
and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British troops in* 
abundance. I have had nothing stolen, and was always 
welcome to their provision and milk. Not a w^eek ago, an 
Albanian chief, (every village has its chief, who is called 
Primate,) after helping us out of the Turkish galley in her 
distress, feeding us, -and lodging my suite, consisting of 
Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, and my 
companion Mr. Hobhouse, refused any compensation, but a 
written paper stating that I was well received ; and when I 
pressed him to accept a few sequins, " No," he replied, " I 
wish you to love me, not to pay me ;" — these are his words. 

It is astonishing how far money goes in this country. 
When I was in the capital I had nothing to pay by the 
Yizier's order ; but since, though I have generally had sixteen, 
horses, and generally six or seven men, the expense has not 
been half as much as staying only three weeks in Malta, 
though Sir A. Ball, the governor, gave me a house for 
nothing, and I had only one servant. By the bye, I expect 

H to remit regularly ; for I am not about to stay in 

this province for ever. Let him write to me at Mr. Strane's, 
English Consul, Patras. The fact is, the fertility of the. 
plains is wonderful, and specie is scarce, which makes this- 
remarkable cheapness^ I am going to Athens to study 
modern Greek, which differs much from the ancient, though 
radically similar. I have no desire to return to England, nor 

shall I, unless compelled by absolute want, and H — 's 

neglect ; but I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as 
I have much to see in Greece, and I may, perhaps, cross into 

o 3 



330 LORD BYRON TO HIS MOTHER. 

Africa, at least trie Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all English- 
men, is very much, dissatisfied, though a little reconciled 
to the Turks, by the present of eighty piastres from the 
Vizier, which, if you consider every thing, and the value of 
specie here, is nearly worth ten guineas English. He has 
suffered nothing but from cold, heat, and vermin, which those 
who lie in cottages, and cross mountains in a cold country 
must undergo, and of which I have equally partaken with 
himself; but he is not valiant, and is afraid of robbers and 
tempests. I have no one to be remembered to in England, 
and wish to hear nothing from it, but that you are well, and 

a letter or two on business from H , whom you may 

tell to write. I will write when I can, and beg you to 
believe me, 

Your affectionate son, 

Byron. 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

Nessy Hey wood to her Brother. — Fervent Assurances 
of Love and Confidence, 

The eventful history of the mutiny of the Bounty, and of 
Bligh's voyage of four thousand miles over the perilous Atlantic, 
has been narrated by Sir John Barrow with feeling and impar- 
tiality. Among those who remained in the ship, after the expul- 
sion of its commander, was Peter Hey wood, a native of the Isle of 
Man, where his father was seneschal to the Duke of Athol. He 
was a midshipman of the Bounty, and, being the only surviving 
officer, was probably subjected to a severer scrutiny. He was 
convicted by a court-martial, but subsequently received the king's 
pardon, and was restored to the service. It was during the dis- 
tressing interval, between the accusation and the trial, that his 
sister, Nessy Heywood, addressed to him this pathetic expression 
of hope, affection, and pity. She lived, in her own words, to 
clasp her freed brother once more to her bosom, and to proclaim 



NESSY HEYWOOD TO HER BROTHER. 331 

herself, in a hasty note to her mother, one of the happiest beings 
upon earth. But her constitution sank under the violent emo- 
tions it had undergone, and she died at Hastings, September 25, 
1793, within the year of her brother's liberation. If the tenderest 
lore, the most generous self-devotion, and the liveliest sense of 
honour and virtue, be some of the noblest endowments of human 
nature, we shall not hesitate to class Nessy Heywood among 
Eminent Persons. She appeals for distinction neither to the un- 
derstanding nor to the fancy, but to the heart. 



Isle of Man, 2nd June, 1792. 
In a situation of mind, only rendered supportable by the 
long and painful state of misery and suspense we have suffered 
on his account, how shall I address my dear, my fondly- 
beloved brother? how describe the anguish we have felt at 
the idea of this long and painful separation, rendered still 
more distressing by the terrible circumstances attending it. 
Oh ! my ever- dearest boy, when I look back to that dreadful 
moment which brought us the fatal intelligence, that you 
had remained in the Bounty after Mr. Bligh had quitted her, 
and were looked upon by him as a mutineer ! when I con- 
trast that day of horror with my present hopes of again 
beholding you, such as my most sanguine wishes could 
expect, I know not which is the most predominant sensation, 
— pity, compassion, and terror for your sufferings, or joy and 
satisfaction at the prospect of their being near a termination, 
and of once more embracing the dearest object of our affec- 
tions. I will not ask you, my beloved brother, whether you 
are innocent of the dreadful crime of mutiny ; if the transac- 
tions of that day were, as Mr. Bligh has represented them, 
such is my conviction of your worth and honour, that I will, 
without hesitation, stake my life on your innocence. If, on 
the contrary, you were concerned in such a conspiracy against 
your commander, I shall be as firmly persuaded that his con- 
duct was the occasion of it ; but, alas ! could any occasion 
justify so atrocious an attempt to destroy a number of our 



332 NESSY HEYWOOD 

fellow creatures ? No, my ever dearest brother, nothing but 
conviction from your own mouth can possibly persuade me, 
that you would commit an action in the smallest degree 
inconsistent with honour and duty ; and the circumstance of 
your having swam off to the Pandora, on her arrival at Ota- 
heite, (which filled us with joy to which no words can do 
justice,) is sufficient to convince all who know you, that you 
certainly stayed behind either by force, or from views of pre- 
servation. 

How strange does it seem to me that I am now engaged 
in the delightful task of writing to you. Alas ! my beloved 
brother, two years ago I never expected again to enjoy such 
a felicity ; and even yet I am in the most painful uncertainty 
whether you are alive. Gracious God ! grant that we may 
be at length blessed by your return ! but, alas ! the Pandora's 
people have been long expected, and are not even yet arrived. 
Should any accident have happened, after all the miseries you 
have already suffered, the poor gleam of hope, with which 
we have been lately indulged, will render our situation ten 
times more insupportable than if time had inured us to your 
loss. I send this to the care of Mr. Hayward, of Hackney, 
father to the young gentleman you so often mention in your 
letters, while you were on board the Bounty, and who went 
out as third lieutenant of the Pandora, a circumstance which 
gave us infinite satisfaction, as you would, on entering the 
Pandora, meet your old friend. On discovering old Mr. 
Hay ward's residence, I wrote to him, as I hoped he could 
give me some information respecting the time of your arrival, 
and, in return, he sent me a most friendly letter, and has pro- 
mised this shall be given to you when you reach England, as 
I well know how great must be your anxiety to hear of us, 
and how much satisfaction it will give you to have a letter 
immediately on your return. Let me conjure you, my dear- 
est Peter, to write to us the very first moment, — do not lose 
a post, — 'tis of no consequence how short your letter may be, 



TO HER BROTHER. 



333 



if it only informs us you are well. I need not tell you that 
you are the first and dearest object of our affections; think, 
then, my adored boy, of the anxiety we must feel on your 
account ; for my own part, I can know no real happiness or 
joy, independent of you, and, if any misfortune should now 
deprive us of you, my hopes of felicity are fled for ever. 

We are at present making all possible interest with every 
friend and connexion we have, to insure you a sufficient sup- 
port and protection at your approaching trial ; for a trial you 
must unavoidably undergo, in order to convince the world of 
that innocence, which those who know you will not for a 
moment doubt; but, alas! while circumstances are against 
you, the generality of mankind will judge severely. Bligh's 
representations to the Admiralty are, I am told, very unfa- 
vourable, and hitherto the tide of public opinion has been 
greatly in his favour. My mamma is at present well, con- 
sidering the distress she has suffered since you left us ; for, 
my dearest brother, we have experienced a complicated scene 
of misery from a variety of causes, which, however, when 
compared with the sorrow we felt on your account, was 
trifling and insignificant : that misfortune made all others light, 
and, to see you once more returned and safely restored to us, 
will be the summit of all earthly happiness. 

Farewell, my most beloved brother ! God grant this may 
soon be put into your hands ! Perhaps at this moment you 
are arrived in England, and I may soon have the dear delight 
of again beholding you. My mamma, brothers, and sisters, 
join with me in every sentiment of love and tenderness. 
Write to us immediately, my ever-loved Peter, and may the 
Almighty preserve you until you bless with your presence 
your fondly affectionate family, and particularly your unal- 
terably faithful friend and sister, 

Nessy Heywood. 



334 BISHOP HEBER 

LETTER LXXXIX. 

Bishop Heber to his Mother. — A Picture of Moscow. 

About the middle of 1805, after an academic career of almost 
unexampled brilliancy and success, Heber left England, accom- 
panied by his early and attached friend, Mr. John Thornton, on a 
tour through the northern countries of Europe. During his 
travels, he visited Russia, Norway, Sweden, the Crimea, Hungary 
Austria, Prussia, and Germany. Some of the most interesting 
notes in Dr. Clarke's volumes were contributed by Heber. He 
possessed, in an eminent degree, many of the qualities of a suc- 
cessful traveller. To the painter's eye he united the poet's heart ; 
and described what he saw and what he felt, with delightful ease, 
vivacity, and elegance. Tender, without the affectation of senti- 
ment, and learned, without the profusion of pedantry, he is one of 
the most agreeable and instructive of tourists. The reader only 
regrets that he has not written more. 



My dear Mother, Moscow, Jan. 4, 1806. 

Our journey has been prosperous, and, after about 
ninety hours' continued jolting, we arrived safely at Moscow 
about eight o'clock last night. Mr. Bayley came with us, 
and we have found his knowledge of the Russian language 
and manners of great service to us on the road. Our method 
of travelling deserves describing, both as being comfortable in 
itself, and as being entirely different to from anything in Eng- 
land. We performed the journey in Kibitkas, the carriages 
usually employed by the Russians in their winter journies; 
they are nothing more than a very large cradle, well covered 
with leather, and placed on a sledge, with a leathern curtain 
in front ; the luggage is packed at the bottom, the portman- 
teaus serving for an occasional seat, and the whole covered 
with a mattrass, on which one or more persons can lie at full 
length, or sit, supported by pillows. In this attitude, and 
well wrapped up in furs, one can scarcely conceive a more 
luxurious mode of getting over a country, when the roads are 



TO HIS MOTHER. 335 

good, and the Aveather not intense ; but in twenty-four, 
or twenty-five degrees of frost, Reaumur, no wrapping can 
keep you quite warm ; and in bad roads, of which we have 
had some little experience, the jolting is only equalled by the 
motion of a ship in a storm. 

In the weather we were very fortunate, having a fine 
clear frost, about as mild as an English Christmas. Our first 
forty hours were spent in traversing an unfertile and unlovely 
country, the most flat and uninteresting I ever saw, with 
nothing but occasional patches of cultivation, and formal fir 
woods, without a single feature of art or nature which could 
attract attention. Once, indeed, from a little elevation, we 
saw the sun set to great advantage ; it was singular to see it 
slowly sinking beneath the black and perfectly level horizon 
of the sea of land which surrounded us. The night which 
followed was distinguised by more jolting than usual; and 
about sunrise, Thornton drew the curtain, and cried out, — 
" England !" I started up, and found we were on the summit 
of a low range of stony hills, with an enclosed and populous 
country before us, and a large town, Valdai, which, with its 
neighbourhood, had some little resemblance to Oxford, as 
seen from the Banbury road. This is, in fact, the boundary 
of Ancient Russia ; all beyond were the territories of Novo- 
gorod, Istria, and the other countries they have conquered. 
The whole plain from Yaldai to Moscow is very level, 
entirely arable, generally common fields, with some shabby 
enclosures, thickly set with villages and small coppices, in 
which the firs begin to be relieved by birch, lime, ash, and 
elm. Tver and Torshok are large towns, but have nothing in 
them to detain a traveller. During this journey, I was 
struck by observing the very little depth of snow on the 
ground, which was not more, nor so much, as we often see in 
England, and no where prevented my distinguishing the 
meadows from the stubble-fields. Mr. Bayley said he had 
often made the same observation, and that it was not peculiar 



336 



BISHOP IIEBER 



to the present year. We had our guns with us ; and often 
left the Kibitka in pursuit of the large black grouse, of which 
we saw several, — a noble bird, as large as a turkey. They 
were, however, so wild, we could not get a fair shot. We 
had some hopes of killing a wolf, as one or two passed the 
road during the first part of our journey; but it was during 
the night, and, before we were fairly roused and could get 
our guns ready, they were safe in the wood. In severe 
winters they are sometimes easily shot, as they keep close 
to the road-side, and, when very much famished, will even 
attack the horses in a carriage : they are not considered dan- 
gerous to men, except in self-defence. Of the people, we, of 
course, saw but little ; though, having so good an interpreter 
with us, we asked many questions, and went into several of 
the cottages, which we found much cleaner than we expected, 
but so hot that we could not endure to remain in them long. 
A Russian cottage is always built of logs, cemented with clay 
and moss, and is generally larger than an English one ; it has 
two stories, one of which is half sunk, and serves as a store- 
house ; two-thirds of the upper story are taken up with the 
principal room, where they sit and sleep ; and the remainder 
is divided between a closet, where they cook their victuals, 
and an immense stove, not unlike an oven, which heats the 
whole building, and the top of which, (for the chimney, is 
only a small flue on the side,) serves as a favourite sitting and 
sleeping-place, though we could scarcely bear to lay our 
hands on it. In the corner of the great room always stands 
the bed of the master and mistress of the family, generally 
very neat, and with curtains, sometimes of English cotton : 
the other branches of the family sleep on the stove or the 
floor. In the post-houses, which differ in no respect from 
this description, we always found good coffee, tea, and cream, 
— nothing else can be expected, and we carried our other pro- 
visions with us. 

The country people are all alike, dirty, good-humoured 



TO HIS MOTHER. 337 

fellows, in sheep-skin gowns, with the wool inwards. The 
drivers crossed themselves devoutly before beginning each 
stage, and sung the whole way, or else talked to their horses. 
A Russian seldom beats his horse, but argues with him first, 
and at last goes no further than to abuse him, and call him 
wolf or Jew, which last is the lowest pitch of their contemp- 
tuous expressions. Their horses are much larger and better 
fed than the Swedish, and, when talked to, secundum artem, 
trot very fast. Nothing on our journey surprised us so much 
as the crowds of single-horse sledges, carrying provisions to 
Petersburg; it would not be exaggerating to say that we 
passed, in twenty-four hours, about a thousand. Every 
article of necessary consumption must, indeed, be brought 
from a distance, as the neighbourhood of Petersburg produces 
nothing to " make trade," very little to " make eat." When 
I have seen the fine fertile country, abounding in everything 
good and desirable, which Peter deserted for the bogs and 
inclement latitude of the Neva, I wonder more and more at 
the boldness and success of his project. It is as if the King 
of England should move his capital from London to Bamff, 
and make a Windsor of Johnny Groat's house. 

We reached this vast overgrown village, for I can compare 
it to nothing else, in the moonlight, and consequently saw it 
to great advantage; though, as we passed along its broad 
irregular streets, we could not but observe the strange mix- 
ture of cottages, gardens, stables, barracks, churches, and 
palaces. This morning we have been much delighted with a 
more accurate survey. Moscow is situated in a fine plain, 
with the river Moskva winding through it ; the town is a 
vast oval, covering about as much ground as London and 
Westminster. The original city is much smaller; it forms 
one quarter of the town, under the name of Katai-gorod, the 
city of Kathay ; it has preserved the name from the time of 
the conquest of Russia by the Tartars, when they seized on 
the city, and made the Russians quit their houses, and build 



338 BISHOP HEBER 

without its walls, what is now called Biel-gorod, or White 
Town. Kitai-gorod is still surrounded by its old Tartar- 
wall, with high brick towers, of a most singular construction; 
the gates are ornamented in the old oriental style, and several 
of the older churches have been originally mosques. But it 
is in the Kremlin, or palace quarter, that the principal vestiges 
of the Khans are displayed; their palacestill exists entire, 
and is a most curious and interesting piece of antiquity. As 
I walked up its high staircase, and looked round on the 
terraces and towers, and the crescents which yet remain in 
their gilded spires, I could have fancied myself the hero of 
an eastern tale, and expected, with some impatience, to see 
the talking-bird, the singing- water, or the black slave with 
his golden club. In this building, which is now called the 
treasury, are preserved the crowns of Kasan, Astracan, and 
Siberia, and of some other petty Asiatic kingdoms. The pre- 
sent imperial apartments are small and mean, and are sepa- 
rated from the Tartar palace by a little court. The first 
entrance to the Kremlin, after passing the great Saracenic 
gate, is excessively striking, and the view of the town and 
river would form a noble panorama. I was, indeed, so well 
satisfied with what I saw from the court-yard, which is very 
elevated, that I was not a little unwilling to do what is 
expected from all strangers, — to clamber up the tower of 
St. Michael, to see a fine prospect turned into a map. The 
tower stands in the middle of the court ; half-way up is the 
gallery whence the ancient monarchs of Russia, down to the 
time of Peter the Great, used to harangue the assemblies of 
the people. Before it is a deep pit, containing the remains 
of the famous bell cast by the Empress Anne, and about three 
times the size of the great bell at Christ Church. It was 
originally suspended on a frame of wood, which was acciden- 
tally burnt down, and the weight of the bell forced it, like 
the helmet of Otranto, through the pavement, into a cellar. 
On each side of the Michael tower is a Christianized mosque, 



TO HIS MOTHER. 339 

of most strange and barbarous architecture ; in one of which 
the sovereigns of Russia are crowned, and in the other they 
are buried. The rest of the Kremlin is taken up by public 
offices, barracks, the archiepiscopal palace, and two or three 
convents. An immense ditch, with a Tartar wall, surrounds 
it : and it is approached by two gates, the principal of which 
a Russian never passes with his hat on. * * * * The 
houses, with the exception of some vast palaces belonging to 
the nobility, are meanness itself. The shops are truly 
Asiatic, dark, small, and huddled together in long vaulted 
bazars, and the streets ill-paved and lighted. 

January 10th. Of the society, we have seen too little to 
form any judgment. We have called on the governor, and 
some other persons to whom we had letters of introduction, 
and have been civilly received. We have also been at two 
private concerts, at one of which we met Madame Mara, who 
is now here with Signor Florio, and who sung but very care- 
lessly. Concerts are fashionable at Moscow; and cards, as 
may be expected in a society which, though they will not 
allow it, is certainly at present provincial, are much more 
common than at Petersburg. The society consists, in a great 
measure, we are told, of families of the old nobility, and 
superannuated courtiers, who live in prodigious state, and, 
from what we have seen, great and almost cumbersome hospi- 
tality. Some of their daughters seem tolerably accomplished, 
and very good-natured, unaffected girls; we have seen nothing 
remarkably beautiful, though the bloom and fresh com- 
plexions of Moscow are often envied by the Petersburg 
belles. We promise ourselves a great deal of amusement 
and instruction from the number of old officers and ministers 
who have figured in the revolution, and the busy scenes of 
Catherine's time. This being Christmas day, according to 
the Russian calendar, we are going to the grand gala dinner 
of the governor's ; it is necessary for us to go in full uniform, 
which, indeed, we must frequently do, as " the old courtiers 



340 BISHOP HEBER TO HIS MOTHER. 

of the queen, and the queen's old courtiers," are much more 
attentive to such distinctions than the circle we have left in 
Petersburg. The English nation is said to be in high favour 
here, and we were much gratified by the cordial manner in 
which many persons expressed themselves towards us. We 
have been rather fortunate in seeing a splendid Greek funeral, 
attended by a tribe of priests, deacons, and archimandrites, 
under the command of one archbishop and two subalterns. 
The archbishop was a Circassian, and one of the bishops a 
Georgian. The u Divine Plato*" is not now in Moscow. I 
am eagerly expecting news from you, which, with some 
regard to the news from Germany, must decide our future 
tour. 

Believe me, dear Mother, yours affectionately, 

Reginald Heber. 



LETTER XC. 



Sir James Mackintosh to Robert Hall } upon his 
recovery from severe indisposition. 

Dr. Gregory obtained from Sir James Mackintosh, a few parti- 
culars of his early intimacy with Robert Hall. They were both 
members of King's College, Aberdeen: Sir James being in his 
18th year, and Hall about a year older. Their friendship soon 
grew close and affectionate. They read together, sat together at 
Lectures, when they were able, and walked together. Mackintosh 
explained his attachment, to Hall, by saying, " that he could not 

* The Russ we have not attempted, though we have been often amused 
with its strange and barbarous similarity to Greek. 0£vs and Foivo f with 
a true ^Eolic pronunciation, are vinegar and wine ; and, after a range of 
visits, we order our carriage to drive Ao/xo)?. I have had plates handed to 
me by Nestors and Nicons; and, one day, heard a hackey-sledge driver call 
his friend Athanasius ; but all these are exceeded by an introduction we 
are promised to the divine Plato himself, who is the Archbishop of Moscow, 
and one of the few learned divines of the Greek Church. — Letter to Richard 
Heber, Esq., from St. Petersburg, Dec. 1805. 



SIR JAJIES MACKINTOSH TO ROBERT HALL. 341 

help it." Their praise of each other was constant and generous ; 
Mackintosh admired the splendour of Hall's eloquence, and Hall 
discovered in the mind of Mackintosh, a relationship to the 
intellect of Bacon*"". The occasion of the following letter was the 
most afflicting calamity to which humanity is subject. When 
Mr. Hall resumed his ministerial duties at Cambridge, he resided 
at Foulmire, a situation where he was totally deprived of society 
and relaxation. Solitude, sleeplessness, and pain, combined to 
renew the malady which had already interrupted his labours. 
Complete abstraction from study, and the skilful attention of Dr. 
Coxe, near Bristol, gradually restored him to health and activity. 
Writing to a friend, Feb. 1, 1806, he thus alludes to his recovery : 
— " With the deepest submission I wish to bow to the mandate of 
that awful, yet, I trust, paternal power, which, when it pleases, 
confounds all human hopes, and lays us prostrate in the dust. It 
is for him to dispose of his creatures as he pleases : and, if 
they be willing and obedient, to work out their happiness, though 
by methods the most painful and afflictive — it is with the sincerest 
gratitude that I would acknowledge the goodness of God in 
restoring me. I am, as far as I can judge, as remote from any- 
thing wild and irregular in the state of my mind, as I ever was in 

* " Of the literary characters respecting whom we conversed, there was 
none whom he praised so highly as his friend, Sir James Mackintosh ; and 
the following fragments all convey some idea of Mr. Hall's estimate of that 
distinguished and lamented person. ' I know no man,' he said repeatedly 
and emphatically, ' equal to Sir James in talents. The powers of his mind 
are admirably balanced. He is defective only in imagination.' At this last 
statement I. expressed my surprise, remarking that I never could have 
expected that the author of the eloquent oration for Peltier, was deficient in 
imagination. ' Well, sir,' said Mr. H., ' I don't wonder at your remark. 
The truth is, he has imagination too ; but with him, imagination is an acqui- 
sition rather than a faculty. He has, however, plenty of embellishment at 
command; for his memory retains everything. His mind is a spacious 
repository hung round with beautiful images, and when he wants one, he 
has nothing to do but to reach up his hand to a peg, and take it down. But 
his images were not manufactured in his mind, they were imported.' B. 
' If he be so defective in imagination, he must be incompetent to descrihe 
scenes and delineate characters vividly and graphically; and I should 
apprehend, therefore, he will not succeed in writing history.' II. ' Sir, I 
do not expect him to produce an eloquent or interesting history. He has, 
I fear, mistaken his province. His genius is best adapted for metaphysical 
speculation ; but, had he chosen moral philosophy, he would probably have 
surpassed every living writer.' " — Conversational Ren:arlcs of Mr. Hall, in the 
Appendix, Note A., to Vol. VI. of his Works. 



342 SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH 

my life ; though I think, owing probably to the former increased 
excitation, I feel some abatement of vigour. My . mind seems 
inert." 



My dear Hall, Bombay, 21st Sept., 1805. 

I believe that in the hurry of leaving London, I did 
not answer the letter that you wrote to me in December, 
1803. I did not, however, forget your interesting young 
friend, from whom I have had one letter from Constantinople, 
and to whom I have twice written at Cairo, where he is. 
No request of yours could be lightly esteemed by me. It 
happened to me a few days ago, in drawing up (merely for 
my own use), a short sketch of my life, that I had occasion 
to give a statement of my recollection of the circumstances of 
my first acquaintance with you. On the most impartial 
survey of my early life, I could see nothing which tended so 
much to excite and invigorate my understanding, and to 
direct it towards high, though, perhaps, scarcely accessible 
objects, as my intimacy with you. Five and twenty years 
are now past since we first met; yet hardly anything has 
occurred since, which has left a deeper, or more agreeable 
impression on my mind. I now remember the extraordinary 
union of brilliant fancy, with acute intellect, which would 
have excited more admiration than it has done, if it had been 
dedicated to the amusement of the great and the learned, 
instead of being consecrated to the far more noble office of 
consoling, instructing, and reforming the poor and forgotten. 
It was then too early for me to discover that extreme purity 
which, in a mind preoccupied with the low realities of life, 
would have been no natural companion of so much activity and 
ardour, but which thoroughly detached you from the world, 
and made you the inhabitant of regions, where alone it is 
possible to be always active without impurity, and where 
the ardour of your sensibility had unbounded scope amidst 
the inexhaustible combination of beauty and excellence. 



TO ROBERT HALL. 343 

It is not given us to preserve an exact medium. Nothing- 
is so difficult as to decide how much ideal models ought to be 
combined with experience; how much of the future should 
be let into the present, in the progress of the human mind. 
To ennoble and purify, without raising us above the sphere 
of our usefulness, to qualify us for what we ought to seek, 
without unfitting us for that to which we must submit — are 
great and difficult problems, which can be but imperfectly 
solved. It is certain the child may be too manly, not only 
for his present engagements, but for his future prospects. 
Perhaps, my good friend, you have fallen into this error of 
superior natures. From this error has, I think, arisen that 
calamity, with which it has pleased Providence to visit you, 
which, to a mind less fortified by reason and religion, I should 
not dare to mention; and which I consider in you little more 
than the indignant struggles of a pure mind, with the low 
realities which surround it — the fervent aspirations after 
regions more congenial to it — and a momentary blindness, 
produced by the fixed contemplation of objects too bright for 
human vision. I may say in this case, in a far grander 
sense than that in which the words were originally spoken 
by our great poet, — 

And yet 

The light that led astray was light from heaven. 

On your return to us you must surely have found consolation 
in the only terrestrial product which is pure and truly exqui- 
site, in the affections and attachments you have inspired, 
which you were most worthy to inspire, and which no 
human pollution can rob of their heavenly nature. If I were 
to prosecute the reflections, and indulge the feelings which 
at this moment fill my mind, I should soon venture to 
doubt whether for a calamity derived from such a source, 
and attended with such consolations, I should so far yield to 
the views and opinions of men, as to seek to condole with 
you. But I check myself, and exhort you, my most worthy 



344 SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH TO ROBERT HALL. 

friend, to check your best propensities, for the sake of attain- 
ing their object. You cannot live for men, without living 
with them. Serve God, then, by the active service of men. 
Contemplate more the good you can do, and the evil you can 
only lament. Allow yourself to see the loveliness of nature 
amidst all its imperfections, and employ your moral imagin- 
ation, not so much by bringing it into contrast with the 
model of ideal perfection, as in gently blending some of the 
fainter colours with the brighter hues of real experience and 
excellence; thus brightening their beauty, instead of broad- 
ening the shade, which must surround us till we waken from 
this dream in other spheres of existence. 

My habits of life have not been favourable to this train 
of meditation. I have been too busy, or too trifling. My 
nature would have been better consulted if I had been placed 
in a quieter situation, where speculation might have been my 
business, and visions of the fair and good my chief recreation. 
When I approach you, I feel a powerful attraction towards 
this, which seems the natural destiny of my mind: but, 
habit opposes obstacles, and duty calls me off, and reason 
frowns on him, who wastes that reflection on a destiny 
independent of him, which he ought to reserve for actions of 
which he is the master*. In another letter I may write to 
you on miscellaneous subjects; at present I cannot bring my 
mind to speak of them. Let me hear from you soon and 
often. Farewell my dear friend. 

Yours ever most faithfully, 

James Mackintosh. 

* " I, at that time, had a sort of morbid wish to seclude myself from 
public life. Never indulge it, earnestly exclaimed your father, it is the 
most fatal of all delusions; the sad delusion by which Cowper was wrecked. 
Our happiness depends not upon torpor, not upon sentimentality, but upon 
the due exercise of our various faculties ; it is not acquired by sighing for 
wretchedness and shunning the wretched, but by vigorously discharging our 
duty to society. Remember what Bacon says, with whom you seem as 
much delighted as I am, that " in this theatre of man's life, God and angels 
only should be lookers on."— Basil Montagu to Robert Mackintosh. 



345 



LETTER XCI. 

Lord Collingwood to his Daughter. — Suggestions 
respecting her Education. 

Cuthbert Collingwood was bom at Newcastle, September 
26th, 1750, and sent to a school in that town, where his com- 
panions, Lord Eldon and his brother, Lord Stowel, remembered 
him to have been a pretty and gentle boy. In 1761 he commenced 
his naval career on board the Shannon, commanded by Admiral 
Brathwaite. While on the West India station, he was brought 
into frequent intercourse with the illustrious Nelson. Colling- 
wood, by the force of merit alone, gradually rose to the highest 
rank in his profession. He participated in the glory of St. Vincent 
and Trafalgar, and distinguished himself upon every occasion by his 
intrepidity and prudence. His health, however, visibly declined 
under the constant anxieties of service ; but to those friends who 
advised him to relinquish his command, he always replied, that 
his life belonged to his country. When at length he determined 
upon returning to England, the time was gone by. On Monday, 
March 7th, 1810, we are informed by his biographer, there was a 
considerable swell, and his friend, Captain Thomas, on entering his 
cabin, expressed his apprehensions that the motion of the vessel 
disturbed him, — " No, Thomas," he said, " nothing in this world 
can disturb me more, — I am dying, and I am sure it must be 
consolatory to you, and all who love me, to see how comfortably 
I am coming to my end." With affectionate remembrances of 
his absent family , after taking " a tender farewell of his attend- 
ants," he expired, in perfect tranquillity, off Port Mahon, at six 
o'clock in the evening, aged 59 years and six months. He was 
buried in St. Paul's, by the side of Nelson. The history of his 
life is recorded in the annals of his country ; the history of his 
mind, in his most delightful correspondence. It has been very 
elegantly and justly observed, that there is something peculiarly 
affecting in his thoughts of home, and the trees he had planted, 
and the flower-garden, and the summer-seat, which he is perpe- 
tually breathing from the distant and lonely seas. 



346 LORD COLLINGWOOD 

Ocean, at Malta, February 5, 1809. 
I received your letter, my dearest child, and it made 
me very happy to find that you and dear Mary were well, 
and talcing pains with your education. The greatest pleasure 
I have amidst my toils and troubles, is in the expectation 
which I entertain of finding you improved in knowledge, and 
that the understanding which it has pleased God to give you 
both, has been cultivated with care and assiduity. Your 
future happiness and respectability in the world depend on 
the diligence with which you apply to the attainment of 
knowledge at this period of your life; and I hope that no 
negligence of your own will be a bar to your progress. When 
I write to you, my beloved child, so much interested am I 
that you should be amiable, and worthy of the friendship 
and esteem of good and wise people, that I cannot forbear to 
second and enforce the instruction which you receive, by 
admonition of my own, pointing out to you the great advan- 
tages that will result from a temperate conduct and sweetness 
of manner, to all people, on all occasions. It does not follow 
that you are to coincide and agree in opinion with every ill- 
judging person; but, after showing them your reason for 
dissenting from their opinion, your argument and opposition 
to it should not be tinctured by anything offensive. Never 
forget for one moment that you are a gentlewoman; and all 
your words, and all your actions, should mark you gentle. I 
never knew your mother, — your dear, your good mother, — 
say a harsh or a hasty thing to any person in my life. Endea- 
vour to imitate her. I am quick and hasty in my temper; 
my sensibility is touched sometimes with a trifle, and my 
expression of it sudden as gunpowder; but, my darling, it is 
a misfortune, which, not having been sufficiently restrained 
in my youth, has caused me much pain. It has, indeed, 
given me more trouble to subdue this natural impetuosity, 
than anything I ever undertook. I believe that you are both 



TO HIS DAUGHTER. 347 

mild; but if ever you feel in your little breasts that you 
inherit a particle of your father's infirmity, restrain it, and quit 
the subject that has caused it, until your serenity be recovered. 
So much for mind and manners; next for accomplishments. 

No sportsman ever hits a partridge without aiming at it; 
and skill is acquired by repeated attempts. It is the same 
thing in every art; unless you aim at perfection, you will 
never attain it; but frequent attempts will make it easy. 
Never, therefore, do anything with indifference. "Whether 
it be to mend a rent in your garment, or finish the most 
delicate piece of art, endeavour to do it as perfectly as it is 
possible. When you write a letter, give it your greatest 
care, that it may be as perfect in all its parts as you can 
make it. Let the subject be sense, expressed in the most 
plain, intelligible, and elegant manner that you are capable of. 
If, in a familiar epistle, you should be playful and jocular, 
guard carefully that your wit be not sharp, so as to give pain 
to any person; and before you write a sentence, examine it, 
even the words of which it is composed, that there be nothing 
vulgar or inelegant in them. Remember, my dear, that your 
letter is the picture of your brains, and those whose brains are 
a compound of folly, nonsense, and impertinence, are to blame 
to exhibit them to the contempt of the world, or the pity of 
their friends. To write a letter with negligence, without 
proper stops, with crooked lines, and great flourishing dashes, 
is inelegant; it argues either great ignorance of what is 
proper, or great ignorance towards the person to whom it is 
addressed, and is consequently disrespectful. It makes no 
amends to add an apology, for having scrawled a sheet of 
paper, of bad pens, for you should mend them ; or want of 
time, for nothing is more important to you, or to which your 
time can more properly be devoted. I think I can know the 
character of a lady pretty nearly by her hand- writing. The 
dashers are all impudent, however they may conceal it from 
themselves or others, and the scribblers flatter themselves 

p2 



348 LORD COLLTNGWOOD 

with a vain hope, that, as their letter cannot be read, it may 
be mistaken for sense. I am very anxious to come to Eng- 
land, for I have lately been unwell. The greatest happiness 
which I expect there, is to find that my dear girls have been 
assiduous in their learning. 

May God Almighty bless you, my beloved little Sarah, 
and sweet Mary too. 



LETTER XCII. 



The Same to Lady Collingwood. — Cherished hopes of 
returning to his family. 

Ocean, June 16, 1806. 
This day, my love, is the anniversary of our marriage, 
and I wish you many happy returns of it. If ever we have 
peace, I hope to spend my latter days amid my family, which 
is the only sort of happiness I can enjoy. After this life of 
labour, to retire to peace and quietness is all I look for in the 
world. Should we decide to change the place of our dwelling, 
our route would of course be to the southward* of Morpeth ; 
but then I should be for ever regretting those beautiful views 
which are nowhere to be exceeded ; and even the rattling of 
that old waggon that used to pass our door at six o'clock in a 
winter's morning had its charms. The fact is, whenever I 
4hink how I am to be happy again, my thoughts carry me 
back to Morpeth, where, out of the fuss and parade of the 
world, surrounded by those I loved most dearly, and who 
loved me, I enjoyed as much happiness as my nature is 
capable of. Many things that I see in the world, give me a dis- 
taste to the finery of it. The great knaves are not like those poor 
unfortunates, who, driven perhaps to distress from accidents 
which they could not prevent, or at least not educate^ in 
principles of honour and honesty, are hanged for some little 



TO LADY COLLINGWOOD. 349 

thievery : while a knave of education and high-breeding, who 
brandishes his honour in the eyes of the world, would rob a 
state to its ruin. For the first, I feel pity and compassion ; 
for the latter, abhorrence and contempt : they are the tenfold 
vicious. 

Have you read — but what I am more interested about, is 
your sister with you, and is she well and happy ? Tell her 
—God bless her ! — I wish I were with you, that we might 
have a good laugh. God bless me ! I have scarcely laughed 
these three years. I am here with a very reduced force, 
having been obliged to make detachments to all quarters. 
This leaves me weak, while the Spaniards and French within 
arc daily gaining strength. They have patched and pieced 
until they have now a very considerable fleet. Whether they 
will venture out, I do not know : if they come, I have no 
doubt we shall do an excellent deed, and then I will bring 
them to England myself. 

How do the dear girls go on ? I would have them taught 
geometry, which is of all sciences in the world the most 
entertaining : it expands the mind more to the knowledge of 
all things in nature, and better teaches to distinguish between 
truths and such things as have the appearance of being 
truths, yet are not, than any other. Their education, and 
the proper cultivation of the sense which God has given 
them, are the objects on which my happiness most depends. 
To inspire them with a love of everything that is honourable 
and virtuous, though in rags, and with contempt for vanity 
in embroidery, is the way to make them the darlings of my 
heart. They should not only read, but it requires a careful 
selection of books ; nor should they ever have access to two 
at the same time : but when a subject is begun, it should- be 
finished before anything else is undertaken. How would it 
enlarge their minds if they could acquire a sufficient know- 
ledge of mathematics and astronomy, to give them an idea of 
the beauty and wonders of the creation ! I am persuaded 



350 LORD COLLINGWOOD. 

that the generality of people, and particularly fine ladies, only 
adore God because they are told it is proper, and the fashion 
to go to church ; but I would have my girls gain such know- 
ledge of the works of the creation, that they may have a fixed 
idea of the nature of that Being who could be the author of 
such a world. Whenever they have that, nothing on this 
side the moon will give them much uneasiness of mind. I 
do not mean that they should be stoics, or want the common 
feelings for the sufferings that flesh is heir to; but they 
would then have a source of consolation for the worst that 
could happen. 

Tell me, how do the trees which I planted, thrive ? Is 
there shade under the three oaks for a comfortable summer- 
seat ? Do the poplars grow at the walk, and does the wall 
of the terrace stand firm? My bankers tell me that all my 
money in their hands is exhausted by fees on the peerage, 
and that I am in their debt, which is a new epoch in my 
life, for it is the first time I was ever in debt since I was a 
midshipman. Here I get nothing; but then my expenses are 
nothing, and I do not want it particularly, now that I have 
got my knives, forks, tea-pot, and the things you were so 
kind as to send me. 



LETTER XCIII. 



Robert Hall to Mr. Hewitt Fysh, upon the death 
of his Wife. 

When Sir James Mackintosh said, that posterity would place 
the name of Hall by the side of Paley, he scarcely assigned to him 
his proper situation in theological literature. Hall, indeed, pos- 
sessed many of the most valuable qualities of Paley ; but Paley 
wanted the vivacious and illuminating fancy of Hall. In his cor- 
respondence, however, we find no other characteristics of his mind, 
than simplicity and truth. 



ROBERT HALL TO MR. HEWITT FYSH. 351 

Shelford, March 11, 1804. 
My dear Friend, 

I deeply sympathize with you in the great loss you 
have sustained by the decease of your most excellent wife *. 
It is a stroke which will be long felt by all her surviving 
friends: how much more by a person with whom she was 
so long and so happily united ! There are many considera- 
tions, however, which must occur to your mind, in allevia- 
tion of your distress. The dear deceased had long been 
rendered incapable, by the severity of her affliction, of enjoy- 
ing life ; and a further extension of it would have been but a 
prolongation of woe. Much as her friends must regret her 
loss, to have been eagerly solicitous for her continuance here, 
would have been a refined selfishness, rather than true friend- 
ship. She was spared for the kindest purposes, to exemplify 
the power of religion in producing a cheerful resignation to 
the will of God, through a long series of suffering, to a degree 
which I never saw equalled in any other instance. There 
teas the faith and patience of the Saints. Her graces were 
most severely tried, and surely never did any shine brighter. 
The most active and zealous services in religion could not 
have yielded more glory to God than the dignified composure, 
the unruffled tranquillity, and the unaltered sweetness, she 
maintained amidst her trials. O, my dear friend, let the 
image of her virtues be ever impressed on your heart, and ever 
improved as an incentive to that close walk with God which 
laid the foundation of all her excellence. To have had an 
opportunity of contemplating the influence of genuine religion 
so intimately, and under so interesting a form, is a privilege 
which falls to the lot of few, and is surely one of the most 
inestimable advantages we can possess. That she was spared 
to you so long; that her patience continued unexhausted 
amidst so severe a pressure ; and, above all, that you have so 

* See Mr. Hall's Letter to this lady.— Works, vol. v., p. 410. 



352 ROBERT HALL 

well-grounded an assurance of her happiness, must fill you 
with a grateful sense of the divine goodness. This state is 
designed to be a mingled scene, in which joy and sorrow, and 
serenity and storms, take their turns. A perpetuity of either 
would be unsuitable to us ; an uninterrupted series of pro- 
sperity would fill us with worldly passions; an unbroken 
continuity of adversity would unfit us for exertion. The 
spirit would fail be/ore him, and the souls ivhich he hath made. 
Pain and pleasure, scenes of satisfaction and sorrow, are 
admirably attempered with each other, so as to give us con- 
stant room for thankfulness, and yet to remind us that this is 
not our rest. Our dear and invaluable friend has entered into 
the world of perfect spirits, to which she made so near an 
approach during her continuance here. To a mind so refined, 
and exercised in the school of affliction, so resigned to the 
Divine will, and so replete with devotion and benevolence, 
how easy and delightful was the transition ! To her to live 
was Christ, but to die was gain. Let us improve this dispen- 
sation of Providence, by imitating her example : let us 
cherish her memory with reverential tenderness ; and consider 
it as an additional call to all we have received before, to seek 
the things that are above. 

I confess, the thought of so dear a friend having left this 
world, makes an abatement of its value in my estimation, as 
I doubt not it will still more in yours. The thought of my 
journey to London gives me little or no pleasure ; for I shall 
hear the accents of that sweet voice which so naturally 
expressed the animation of benevolence, — I shall behold that 
countenance which displayed so many amiable sentiments, — 
no more. But can we wish her back? Can we wish to 
recall her from that blissful society which she has joined, and 
where she is singing a new song ? No, my dear friend ! you 
will not be so selfish. You will, I trust, aspire with greater 
ardour than ever after the heavenly world, and be daily 
imploring fresh supplies of that grace which will fit you for an 



TO MR. HEWITT FYSH. 353 

everlasting union with our deceased friend. I hope her 
amiable nieces will profit by this expressive event. And as 
they have (blessed be God for it), begun to seek after Sim with 
their faces thitherward, that they will walk forward with 
additional firmness and alacrity. I shall make little or no 
stay in London on my first journey; but, as I long to see you, 
will spend the 11th instant, (that is, the evening preceding my 
engagement to preach,) at your house, if agreeable. I shall 
be glad to see Mr. Dove, but pray do not ask strangers. 
I am your sympathizing friend, 

Robert Hall *•, 



LETTER XCIV. 

Mrs. Inchbald to Mrs. Phillips. — An Anecdote of 
Madame de Stael. 

In the winter of the year 1790, an authoress, residing in & 
single room, up two pair of stairs, in Frith-street, presented to the 
world a tale, in natural truth and skilful delineation of the pas- 
sions, unequalled then, unrivalled since. That authoress was Mrs. 

* One of the most beautiful letters of consolation in our langxiage, was written 
by Mr. Stephen to Hannah More, upon the death of his wife, in 1816. " It is," 
he says, " in the daily and hourly conduct of domestic life, and the privacy of 
the family circle, and, by long observation there, that a character like her's 
can alone be thoroughly studied, and sufficiently admired. For my part, I 
can most conscientiously affirm, that every year, and every month, since f 
first had the high honour and happiness to possess her, added to my admira- 
tion of her virtues. Such perfect disinterestedness, such generous self- 
denial, such spotless truth and integrity, such unaffected humility, and 
tenderness of conscience, such vigilance, watchfulness against sin, above 
all, such a devotedness to God and zeal for his service— devotedness, rational 
and enlightened, though alas, from the body's maladies, not always cheerful ; 
zeal always gentle, always candid, yet overflowing in works of love — have, 
I believe, very rarely been found to indicate with equal clearness the source 
from which they flowed, a true and living faith. I know not whether to add 
to the rest the exquisite sensibility of her affectionate heart, which however 
endearing to me, and all she loved, was too natural to her, perhaps, to be 
reckoned among her Christian graces. Yet, like the charms of her under- 
standing and wit, it gave to the abundant clusters which proved her a genuine 
branch of the true vine, a higher bloom and flavour." 

P3 



354 MRS. INCHBALD 

Inchbald * ; that tale was the Simple Story. The success of the 
novel was rapid and extensive ; but its most grateful fruit was the 
friendship of Mrs. Phillips, wife of the surgeon to the king. Mrs. 
Inchbald's letters to this lady are the pleasantest in her biography, 
and afford the reader the clearest insight into her very singular 
character. The " mutual acquaintance" was Mrs. Opie. 



August 26th, 1813. 
I will now mention the calamity of a neighbour, by many 
degrees the first female writer in the world, as she is called 
by the Edinburgh Reviewers. Madame de Stael asked a 
lady of my acquaintance to introduce her to me. The lady 
was our mutual acquaintance, of course, and so far my friend, 
as to conceal my place of abode ; yet she menaced me with a 
visit from the Baroness of Holstein, if I would not consent to 
meet her at a third house. After much persuasion, I did so. 
I admired Madame de Stael much; she talked to me the 
whole time; so did Miss Edgeworth, whenever I met her in 
company. These authoresses suppose me dead, and seem to 
pay a tribute to my memory ; but, with Madame de Stael, it 
seemed no passing compliment : she was inquisitive as well 
as attentive, and entreated me to explain to her the motive 
why I shunned society. " Because," I replied, " I dread 
the loneliness that will follow." " What, will you feel your 
solitude more when you return from this company, than you 
did before you came hither ?" " Yes." " I should think it 
would elevate your spirits : why will you feel your loneliness 
more V " Because I have no one to tell that I have seen 
you; — no one to describe your person to ; — no one to whom I 
can repeat the many encomiums you have passed on my 
Simple Story ; — no one to enjoy any of your praises but my- 
self." " Ah ! ah ! you have no children ;" and she turned to 
an elegant young woman, her daughter, with pathetic ten- 
terness. She then so forcibly depicted a mother's joys, that 

* Charles Lamb spoke of Mrs. Inchbald, "as the only endurable clever 
woman he had ever known." 



TO MRS. PHILLIPS. 355 

she sent me home more melancholy at the comparison of 
our situations in life, than could have arisen from the con- 
sequences of riches or poverty. I called, by appointment, 
at her house, two days after : I was told she was ill. The 
next morning, my paper explained her illness. You have 
seen the death of her son in the papers*: he was one of Berna- 
dotte's aides-de-camp , — the most beautiful young man that 
ever was seen, only nineteen, — a duel with sabres, and the 
first stroke literally cut off his head! Necker's grandson. 



LETTER XCV. 
Lord Eocmouth to his Brother. — The Battle of Algiers. 

When the British government had determined to punish the 
atrocious cruelty of the Algerines, the command of the expedition 
was entrusted to Lord Exmouth. Of his manner and appearance 
upon the memorable day which witnessed the destruction of 
this strong-hold of Piracy, a very graphic sketch has been given 
by his Arabic interpreter, Mr. Salame, who had been despatched 
to the Dey with a flag of truce, to receive his reply to the Admi- 
ral's final demands. " I was quite surprised," he says, " to see 
how his lordship was altered from what I left him in the morning, 
for I knew his manner was in general very mild, but no w he seemed 
to me all fightful, as a fierce lion which had been chained in a 
cage, and was set at liberty. With all that his lordship's answer 
to me was, " Never mind, we shall see !" and at the same time he 
turned towards the officer, saying, "Be ready!" whereupon, I 
saw every one standing with the match or the string of the lock 
in his hand, anxiously waiting for the word " Fire !" During this 
time, the Queen Charlotte, in a most gallant and astonishing 
manner, took up a position opposite the head of the mole, and at 
a few minutes before three, the Algerines, from the eastern battery, 
fired the first shot at the Impregnable, which was astern, when 
Lord Exmouth, having seen only the smoke of the gun, and before 
the sound reached him, said, with great alacrity, " That will do— « 
fire> my fine fellows!" Lord Exmouth, in a spirit of confident 
bravery, which will remind the reader of the Duke of Wellington's 



356 LORD EXMOUTH 

conduct at Waterloo, had ordered his steward to keep several dishes 
ready*, and he, accordingly, entertained the officers of the ship at 
supper, after the engagement. 



It has pleased God to give me again the opportunity 
of writing to you, and it has also pleased Him to give suc- 
cess to our efforts against these hordes of barbarians. I 
never, however, saw any set of men more obstinate at their 
guns, and it was superior fire only that could keep them 
back. To be sure, nothing could stand before the Queen 
Charlotte's broadside. Everything fell before it; and the 
Swedish consul assures me we killed about five hundred at 
the very first fire, from the crowded way in which troops 
were drawn up, four deep, along the gun-boats, which were 
also full of men. I had myself beckoned to many around the 
guns close to us, to move away, previous to giving the order 
to fire; and I believe they are within bounds, when they 
state their loss at seven thousand men. Our old friend, John 
Gaze +, was as steady as a rock ; and it was a glorious sight 
to see the Charlotte take her anchorage, and to see her flag 
towering on high, when she appeared to be within the flames of 
the Mole itself; and never was a ship nearer burnt; it almost 
scorched me off the poop : we were obliged to haul in the 
ensign, or it would have caught fire. Everybody behaved 
uncommonly well. Admiral Milne came on board at two 
o'clock in the morning, and kissed my hand fifty times before 
the people, as did the Dutch admiral, Yon Capellan. I was 
but slightly touched in the thigh, face, and fingers, my glass 
cut in my hand, and the skirts of my coat torn off by a large 
shot X ; hut, as I bled a good deal, it looked as if I was badly 

* Salame. 

t The master of the fleet, who had sailed with Lord Exmouth in every 
ship he commanded from the beginning of the war. — Osler. 

X " When I met his lordship on the poop," says Salame, " his voice was 
quite hoarse, and he had two slight wounds ; one in his cheek, and the other 
in his leg. Before I could pay my respects to him, he said to me, in his 
usual gracious and mild manner, ' Well, my fine fellow, Salame, what 



TO HIS BROTHER. 357 

hurt, and it was gratifying to see and hear how it was received 
even in the cockpit, which was then pretty full. My thigh 
is not quite skinned over, but I am perfectly well, and 
hope to reach Portsmouth by the 10th of October. Fer- 
dinand has sent me a diamond star. Wise behaved most 
nobly, and took up a line-of-battle ship's station; but all 
behaved nobly. I never saw such enthusiasm in all my ser- 
vice, — not a wretch shrunk anywhere ; and I assure you it 
was a very arduous task, but I had formed a very correct 
judgment of. all I saw, and was confident, if supported, I 
should succeed. I could not wait for an off-shore wind to 
attack ; the season was too far advanced, and the land-winds 
become light and calmy. I was forced to attack at once with 
a lee-shore, or perhaps wait a week for a precarious wind 
along shore ; and I was quite sure I should have a breeze off 
the land about one or two in the morning, and equally sure 
we could hold out that time. Blessed be God ; it came, and 
a dreadful night with it, of thunder, lightning, and rain, as 
heavy as I ever saw*. Several ships had expended all their 

think you now V In reply, I shook hands with his lordship, and said, ' I 
am rejoiced to see your lordship safe, and am so much rejoiced with this glo- 
rious victory, that I am not able to express the degree of my happiness.' It 
was, indeed, astonishing to see the coat of his lordship, how it was all cut up 
by the musket-balls, and by grape. It was as if a person had taken a pair of 
scissars, and cut it all to pieces." — Salame's Expedition to Algiers. 

Lord Exmouth's biographer, Mr. Osier, gives another instance of his 
narrow escape. "He was struck in three places: and a cannon-shot tore 
away the skirts of his coat. A button was afterwards found in the signal- 
locker; and the shot broke one of the glasses, and bulged the rim of the 
spectacles in his pocket. He gave the spectacles to his valued friend, Sir 
Richard Keats, who caused their history to be engraved on them, and 
directed, that, when he died, they should be restored to Lord Exmouth's 
family, to be kept as a memorial of his extraordinary preservation."— Life 
of Lord Exmouth, pp. 331, 332. Seo also Life of Collingwood, p. 498. 

* The breeze freshened ; and a tremendous storm of thunder and light- 
ning came on, with torrents of rain ; while the flaming ships and storehouses 
illuminated all the ruins, and increased the grandeur of the scene. In about 
three hours, the storm subsided ; and, as soon as the ship was made snug, 
Lord Exmouth assembled in his cabin all the wounded who could be moved 
with safety, that they might unite with him and his officers in offering 
thanksgiving to God for their victory and preservation.— Osler's Life of Lord 
Exmouth, pp. 329, 330. 



358 LORD EXMOUTH TO HIS BROTHER. 

powder, and been supplied from the brigs. I had latterly 
husbanded, and only fired when they fired on us ; and we 
expended 350 barrels, and 5420 shot, weighing about 65 tons 
of iron. Such a state of ruin of fortifications and houses was 
never seen; and it is the opinion of all the consuls, that two 
hours more firing would have levelled the town, — the walls 
are all so cracked. Even the aqueducts were broken up, and 
the people famishing for water. The sea- defences, to be 
made effective, must be rebuilt from the foundation. The 
fire all round the Mole looked like Pandemonium. I never 
saw anything so grand and so terrific, for I was not on velvet, 
for fear they would drive on board us. The copper bottoms 
floated full of fiery hot charcoal, and were red-hot above the 
surface, so that we could not hook on our fire-grapnels to put 
our boats on, and could do nothing but push fire-booms, and 
spring the ship off by our warps, as occasion required. 






LETTER XCVI. 



Charles Lamb to Mr. Manning. — A Journey to the 
Lakes. — Mountain Scenery at Night. — Coleridge^s 
House. 

Mr. Manning was a' mathematical tutor at Cambridge, for 
whom Lamb entertained a sincere affection. He described him to 
Coleridge as " a man of a thousand f and Sergeant Talfourd ob- 
serves, that, in Lamb's letters to this gentleman, a vein of wild 
humour breaks out, not perceptible in his other correspondence. 
" I think," says one of Lamb's friends, " few persons had so great 
a share of Lamb's admiration, for to few did he vouchsafe manifes- 
tations of his very extraordinary powers*." His visit to the lakes is 
described in his most characteristic spirit. The theme was a 
happy one. Not Johnson himself loved more to behold the full 
tide of human existence flowing through Cheapside. 

* Letters and Conversations of Coleridge, vol. i. p. 212. 



CHARLES LAMB TO MANNING. 359 

My dear Manning, 24th Sept., 1802, London. 

Since the date of my last letter I have been a traveller. 
A strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. My 
first impulse was to go and see Paris. It was a trivial objec- 
tion to my aspiring mind, that I did not understand a word 
of the language, since I certainly intend some time in my 
life to see Paris, and equally certainly intend never to learn 
the language; therefore that could be no objection. However, 
I am very glad I did not go, because you had left Paris (I 
see) before I could have set out. I believe, Stoddart, pro- 
mising to go with me another year, prevented that plan. 
My next scheme, (for to my restless ambitious mind London 
was become a bed of thorns,) was to visit the far-famed peak 
in Derbyshire. My final resolve was, a tour to the lakes. 
I set out with Mary to Keswick, without giving Coleridge 
any notice; for, my time being precious, did not admit 
of it. He received us with all the hospitality in the world, 
and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the 
country. He dwells upon a small hill by the side of Kes- 
wick, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by 
a net of mountains; great floundering bears and monsters 
they seemed, all couchant and asleep. We got in in the 
evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in the 
midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the 
mountains into colours, purple, &c. &c. We thought we 
had got into fairy land. But that went off (and it never came 
again; while we stayed we had no more fine sunsets); and 
we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk, 
when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their 
heads. Such an impression I never received from objects of 
sight before, nor do I suppose that I can ever again. Glorious 
creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, &c. I never shall 
forget ye, how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; 
gone to bed, as it seemed, for the night, but promising that 



360 CHARLES LAMB 

ye were to be seen in the morning. Coleridge had got a 
blazing fire in his study, which is a large, antique, ill-shaped 
room, with an old fashioned organ, never played upon, big- 
enough for a church; shelves of scattered folios, an Eolian 
harp, and an old sofa, half bed, &c. And all looking out 
upon the fading view of Skiddaw, and his broad-breasted 
brethren; what a night! Here we staid three full weeks, in 
which time I visited Wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed 
a day or two with the Clarksons, (good people, and most 
hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night,) 
and saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were gone to Calais. 
They have since been in London, and past much time with 
us ; he is now gone into Yorkshire to be married. So we 
have seen Keswick, Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater (where 
the Clarksons live), and a place at the other end of Uls- 
water, I forget the name*, to which we travelled on a very 
sultry day, over the middle of Helvellyn. We have clam- 
bered up to the top of Skiddaw, and I have waded up the bed 
of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied myself, that there is such 
a thing as that which tourists call romantic, which I very 
much suspected before; they make such a spluttering about 
it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they 
give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the lamps 
do after an illumination. Mary was excessively tired, when 
she got about half-way up Skiddaw, but we came to a cold 
rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running 
over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of 
cold water, she surmounted it most manfully. O, its fine 
black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of 
mountains all about and about, making you giddy; and then 
Scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song 
and ballad ! It was a day that will stand out, like a moun* 
tain, I am sure, in my life. 

But I am returned, (I have now been come home near 

* Patterdale. 



MM 



TO MANNING. 361 

three weeks — I was a month out,) and you cannot conceive 
the degradation I felt at first, from being accustomed to 
wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers 
without being controlled by any one, to come home and 
tcork. I felt very little. I had been dreaming I was a very 
great man. But that is going off, and I find I shall conform 
in time to that state of life to which it has pleased God to 
call me. Besides, after all, Fleet- street and the Strand are 
better places to live in for good and all, than amidst Skid- 
daw. Still, I turn back to those great places where I wan- 
dered about, participating in their greatness. After all, I 
could not live in Skiddaw. I could spend a year, two, three 
years among them, but I must have a prospect of seeing 
Fleet-street at the end of that time, or I should mope and 
pine away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature. My 
habits are changing, I think, i. e. from drunk to sober. 
Whether I shall be happier or no, remains to be proved. I 
shall certainly be more happy in a morning; but whether I 
shall not sacrifice the fat, and the marrow, and the kidneys, 
i. e. the night, glorious care-drowning night, that heals all 
our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifications, changes the 
scene from indifferent and flat, to bright and brilliant. O, 
Manning, if I should have formed a diabolical resolution, by 
the time you come to England, of not admitting any spiritu- 
ous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such 
shame- worthy terms? Is life, with such limitations, worth 
trying ? The truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly 
harpies about my house, who consume me. This is a pitiful 
tale to be read at St. Gothard, but it is just now nearest my 

heart. F is a ruined man. He is hiding himself from 

his creditors, and has sent his wife and children into the 
country. My other drunken companion, (that has been: 
nam hie ccestus artemque repono,) is turned editor of a naval 
chronicle. Godwin continues a steady friend, though the 
same facility does not remain of visiting him often. Holcroft 



362 CHARLES LAMB 

is not yet come to town. I expect to see him, and will 
deliver your message. Things come crowding in to say, and 
no room for them. Some things are too little to be told, i. e. 
to have a preference; some are too big and circumstantial. 
Thanks for yours, which was most delicious, — would I had been 
with you, benighted, &c. I fear my head is turned with 
wandering. I shall never be the same acquiescent being. 
Farewell, write again quickly, for I shall not like to hazard 
a letter, not knowing where the fates have carried you. 
Farewell, my dear fellow, 

C. Lamb. 



LETTER XCVII. 

The Same to the Same. — Christmas in China.— 
Amusing Stories about his Friends. 

Dear old friend and absentee, 

This is Christmas-day, 1815, with us; what it may 
be with you I don't know, the 12th of June next year 
perhaps; and if it should be the consecrated season with you, I 
don't see how you can keep it. You have no turkeys, you would 
not desecrate the festival by offering up a withered Chinese 
bantam, instead of the savoury grand Norfolcian holocaust, 
that smokes all around my nostrils at this moment, from a 
thousand fire-sides. Then, what puddings have you ? "Where 
will you get holly to stick in your churches, or churches to 
stick your dried tea-leaves (that must be the substitute) in ? 
What memorials you can have of the holy time, I see not. 
A chopped missionary or two may keep up the thin idea of 
Lent and the wilderness; but what standing evidence have 
you of the Nativity? 'tis our rosy -cheeked, homestalled 
divines, whose faces shine to the tune of Christmas; faces 
fragrant with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone can 
authenticate the cheerful mystery. I feel myself refreshed 
with the thought, my zeal is great against the unedified 



TO MANNING. 363 

heathen *. Down with the pagodas, down with the idols,—. 
Ching-chong-fo, and his foolish priesthood! Come out of 
Babylon, O my friend! for her time is come, and the child 
that is native, and the proselyte of her gates, shall kindle 
and smoke together! And in sober sense, what makes you so 
long from among us, Manning ? You must not expect to see 
the same England again which you left. 

Empires have been overturned, crowns trodden into dust, 
the face of the western world quite changed; your friends 
have all got old — those you left blooming — myself (who am 
one of the few that remember you,) those golden hairs which 
you recollect my taking a pride in, turned to silvery and 
gray. Mary has been dead and buried many years; she 
desired to be buried in the silk gown you sent her. Rick- 
man, that you remember active and strong, now walks out 
supported by a servant-maid and a stick. Martin Burney is a 
very old man. The other day, an aged woman knocked at 
my door, and pretended to my acquaintance; it was long 
before I had the most distant recognition of her; but at last 
together, we made her out to be Louisa, the daughter of 
Mrs. Topham, formerly Mrs. Morton, who had been Mrs. 
Reynolds, formerly Mrs. Kenney, whose first husband was 
Holcroft, the dramatic writer of the last century. St. Paul's 
church is a heap of ruins; the monument isn't half so high 
as you knew it ; divers parts being successively taken down 
which the ravages of time had rendered dangerous: the 

* " Believe me, who knew him well, that Lamb has more of the essentials 
of Christianity than 99 out of 100 professing Christians."— Coleridge. 
Still at the centre of his being, lodged 
A soul by resignation sanctified : 
And if, too often, self-reproached, he felt 
That innocence belongs not to our kind! 
A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
Charity, amid the multitude of sins 
That she can cover, left not his exposed 
To unforgiving judgment from just heaven. 
O, he was good, if e'er a good man lived. 

Wordsworth. 



364 CHARLES LAMB 

horse at Charing-Cross is gone, no one knows whither ; and 
all this has taken place while you have been settling whether 

Ho-hing-tong should be spelt with a , or a — — . For 

aught I see, you had almost as well remain where you are, 
and not come like a Strulbug into a world where few were 
born when you went away. Scarce here and there one will 
be able to make out your face; all your opinions will be out 
of date, your jokes obsolete, your puns rejected with fasti- 
diousness, as wit of the last age. Your way of mathematics 
has already given way to a new method, which, after all is, 
I believe, the old doctrine of Maclaurin, new vamped up 
with what he borrowed of the negative quality of fluxions 
from Euler. 

Poor Godwin ! I was passing his tomb the other day, in 
Cripplegate churchyard. There are some verses upon it, 

written by Miss , which, if I thought good enough, 

I would send you. He was one of those who would have 
hailed your return, not with boisterous shouts and clamours, 
but with the complacent congratulations of a philosopher, 
anxious to promote knowledge, as leading to happiness ; but 
his systems and his theories are ten feet deep in Cripplegate 
mould. Coleridge is just dead, having lived just long 
enough to close the eyes of "Wordsworth, who paid the debt 
to nature but a week or two before; poor Col! but two 
days before he died, he wrote to a bookseller, proposing an 
epic poem on the " Wanderings of Cain," in twenty- four 
books. It is said he has left behind him more than forty 
thousand treatises in criticism, metaphysics, and divinity, 
but few of them in a state of completion. They are now 
destined, perhaps, to wrap up spices. You see what muta- 
tions the busy hand of time has produced, while you have 
consumed in foolish voluntary exile, that time which might 
have gladdened your friends — benefited your country; but 
reproaches are useless. Gather up the wretched relics. 
my friend, as fast as you can, and come to your old home I 



TO MANNING. 365 

will rub my eyes and try to recognize you. We will shake 
withered hands together, and talk of old things, of St. 
Mary's church, and the barbers opposite, where the young 
students in mathematics used to assemble. Poor Crips, that 
kept it afterwards, set up a fruiterer s shop in Trumpington- 
street, and for aught I know, resides there still, for I saw 
the name up in the last journey I took there with my sister, 
just before she died. I suppose you heard that I had left 
the India House, and gone into the Fishmonger's almshouses 
over the bridge. I have a little cabin there, small and 
homely, but you shall be welcome to it. You like oysters, 
and to open them yourself; I'll get you some if you come in 
oyster-time. Marshall, Godwin's old friend, is still alive, 
and talks of the faces you used to make. 
Come as soon as you can. 

C. Lamb. 



LETTER XCVIII. 



William Beckford to . Rambles in the Valley 

ofCollares; Ely sian scenery of Portugal ; Song of 
a female Peasant ; Rustic hospitality. 

Long before the publication of the letters from Italy, many 
gleams of exquisite description derived from them, had delighted 
the reader in the pages of one or two living poets. They were 
written, as the author observes, in the bloom and heyday of 
youthful spirits and youthful confidence, and contain some of the 
most beautiful pictures of scenery, and some of the liveliest traits 
of character, to be found in our literature. Lord Byron's remark 
upon Moore's Eastern poetry, " that he had lived in the rainbow, 
and caught its hues," may be applied to the description of the 
author of Vathek. Whether he lets in the ruby light through 
the stained windows upon the white garments of a monk ; or 
opens the latticed casement of his apartment upon a boundless 
vineyard in all the luxuriance of foliage ; or displays before us 
the wondrous kitchen of the monastery of Alcobaca, — he is at all 
times equally vivacious, equally graceful, and equally original. 



366 WILLIAM BECKF0RD 

October 19, 1787. 

My health improves every day. The .clear exhilarating 
weather we now enjoy, calls forth the liveliest sense of existence. 
I ride, walk, and climb, as long as T please, without fatiguing 
myself. The valley of Collares affords me a source of per- 
petual amusement. I have discovered a variety of paths 
which lead through chestnut copses and orchards to irregular 
green spots, where self-sown bays and citron-bushes hang 
wild over the rocky margin of a little river, and drop their 
fruit and blossoms into the stream. You may ride for miles 
along the banks of this delightful water, catching endless 
perspectives of flowery thickets, between the stems of poplar 
and walnut. The scenery is truly Elysian, and exactly such 
as poets assign for the resort of happy spirits. The mossy 
fragments of rocks, grotesque pollards, and rustic bridges, you 
meet with at every step, recall Savoy and Switzerland to the 
imagination ; but the exotic cast of the vegetation, the vivid 
green of the citron, the golden fruitage of the orange, the 
blossoming myrtle, and the rich fragrance of a turf embroidered 
with the brighest-coloured and most aromatic flowers, allow 
me, without a violent stretch of fancy, to believe myself in 
the garden of the Hesperides, and to expect the dragon under 
every tree. I by no means like the thought of abandoning 
these smiling regions, and have been twenty times on the 
point, this very day, of revoking the orders I have given for 
my journey. Whatever objections I may have had to Portu- 
gal, seem to vanish since I have determined to leave it ; for 
such is the perversity of human nature, that objects appear 
the most estimable precisely at the moment when we are 
going to lose them. 

There was this morning a mild radiance in the sun- 
beams, and a balsamic serenity in the air, which infused that 
voluptuous listlessness — that desire of remaining imparadised 
in one delightful spot, which, in classical fictions, was sup- 



to . 367 

posed to render those who had tasted of the lotus, forgetful of 
country, of friends, and of every tie. My feelings were not 
dissimilar; I loathed the idea of moving away. 

Though I had entered these beautiful orchards soon after 
sunrise, the clocks of some distant conventual churches had 
chimed hour after hour, before I could prevail upon myself to 
quit the spreading odoriferous bay -trees under which I had 
been lying. If shades so cool and fragrant invited to repose, 
I must observe, that never were paths better calculated to 
tempt the laziest of beings to a walk, than those that opened 
on all sides, and are formed of a smooth dry sand, bound 
firmly together, composing a surface as hard as gravel. These 
level paths wind about amongst a labyrinth of light and 
elegant fruit-trees ; almond, plum, and cherry, something 
like the groves of Tonga-taboo, as represented in Cook's 
voyages ; and to increase the resemblance, neat cane fences 
and low open sheds, thatched with reeds, appear at intervals, 
breaking the horizontal line of the perspective. I had now 
lingered and loitered away pretty nearly the whole morning, 
and though, as far as scenery could authorize, and climate 
inspire, I might fancy myself an inhabitant of Elysium, I 
could not pretend to be sufficiently ethereal to exist without 
nourishment. In plain English, I was extremely hungry. 
The pears, quinces, and oranges, which dangled above my 
head, although fair to the eye, were neither so juicy nor 
gratifying to the palate, as might have been expected from 
their promising appearance. 

Being considerably 

More than a mile immersed within the wood 45 , 

and not recollecting by which clue of a path I could get out 
of it, I remained at least half an hour deliberating whicjh. way 
to turn myself. The sheds and enclosures I have mentioned, 
were put together with care, and even nicety, it is true, but 

* Drydeu. 



368 WILLIAM BECKFORD 

seemed to have no other inhabitants than flocks of bantams, 
strutting about, and destroying the eggs and hopes of many 
an insect family. These glistening fowls, like their brethren 
described in Anson's voyages, as animating the profound 
solitudes of the island of Tinian, appeared to have no master. 
At length, just as I was beginning to wish myself very 
heartily in a less romantic region, I heard the loud, though 
not unmusical, tones of a powerful female voice, echoing 
through the arched-green avenues : presently a stout ruddy 
young peasant, very picturesquely attired in brown and 
scarlet, came hoydening along, driving a mule before her, laden 
with two enormous panniers of grapes. To ask for a share of 
this luxuriant load, and to compliment the fair driver, was 
instantaneous on my part, but to no purpose. I was answered 
by a sly wink, " We all belong to Senhor Jose Dias, whose 
corral, or farm-yard, is half a league distant. There, Senhor, 
if you follow that road, and don't puzzle yourself by straying 
to the right or left, you will soon reach it, and the bailiff, I 
dare say, will be proud to give you as many grapes as you 
please. Good morning, happy days to you ! I must mind 
my business." 

Seating herself between the tantalizing panniers, she was 
gone in an instant, and I had the good luck to arrive at the 
wicket of a rude, dry wall, winding up several bushy slopes in 
a wild irregular manner. If the outside of this enclosure was 
rough and unpromising, the interior presented a most cheerful 
scene of rural opulence. Droves of cows and goats milking; 
ovens, out of which huge cakes of savoury bread had just 
been taken; ranges of bee-hives, and long-pillared sheds, 
entirely tapestried with purple and yellow muscadine grapes, 
half candied, which were hung up to dry. A very good- 
natured, classical-looking magister pecorum, followed by two 
well-disciplined, though savage-eyed dogs, whom the least 
glance of their master prevented from barking, gave me a 
hearty welcome, and with genuine hospitality not only allowed 



to — ; . 369 

me the free range of his domain, but set whatever it produced 
in the greatest perfection before me. A contest took place 
between two or three curly-haired, chubby-faced children, 
who should be first to bring me walnuts fresh from the shell, 
bowls of milk, and cream-cheeses, made after the best of 
fashions, that of the province of Alemtejo. 

I found myself so abstracted from the world in this 
retirement, so perfectly transported back into primitive patri- 
archal times, that I don't recollect having ever enjoyed a few 
hours of more delightful calm. " Here," did I say to myself, 
" am I out of the way of courts, and ceremonies, and common- 
place visitations, or salutations, or gossip." But, alas ! how 
vain is all one thinks or says to oneself nineteen times out of 
twenty. "Whilst I was blessing my stars for this truce to the 
irksome bustle of the life I had led since her Majesty's arrival 
at Cintra, a loud hallooing, the cracking of whips, and the 
trampling of horses, made me start up from the snug corner 
in which I had soothed myself, and dispelled all my delightful 
visions. Luis de Miranda, the colonel of the Cascais reoi- 
ment, an intimate confidant and favourite of the Prince of 
Brazil, broke in upon me with a thousand, (as he thought,) 
obliging reproaches, for having deserted Ramalhao, the very 
morning he had come on purpose to dine with me, and to 
propose a ride after dinner to a particular point of the Cintra 
mountains, which commands, he assured me, such a prospect 
as I had not yet been blessed with in Portugal. " It is not, 
even now," said he "too late. I have brought your horses along 
with me, whom I found fretting and stamping under a great 
tree at the entrance of these foolish lanes. Come, get into 
your stirrups for God's sake, and I will answer for your think- 
ing yourself well repaid by the scene I shall disclose to you." 

As I was doomed to be disturbed and talked out of the 
elysium in which I had been wrapped for these last seven or 
eight hours, it was no matter in what position, whether on 
foot or on horseback; I therefore complied, and away we 

Q 



370 WILLIAM BECKFORD 

galloped. The horses were remarkably sure- footed, or else, I 
think, we must have rolled down the precipices; for our 
road, — 

If road it could he called, where road was none, 
led us by zigzags and short cuts, over steeps and acclivities, 
about three or four leagues, till reaching a heathy desert, 
where a solitary cross starting out of a few weather-beaten 
bushes, marked the highest point of this wild eminence, one 
of the most expansive prospects of sea, and plain, and distant 
mountains, I ever beheld, burst suddenly upon me, — rendered 
still more vast, aerial, and indefinite, by the visionary, magic 
vapour of the evening sun. 

After enjoying a moment or two the general effect, I 
began tracing out the principal objects in the view, as far, 
that is to say, as they could be traced, through the medium 
of the intense glowing haze. I followed the course of the 
Tagus, from its entrance till it was lost in the low estuaries 
beyond Lisbon. Cascais appeared, with its long reaches of 
wall and bomb-proof casements, like a Moorish town ; and by 
the help of a glass, I distinguished a tall palm lifting itself 
up above a cluster of white buildings. " Well," said I to my 
conductor, " this prospect has certainly charms worth seeing ; 
but not sufficient to make me forget that it is high time to 
get home and refresh ourselves." " Not so fast," was the 
answer, " we have still a great deal more to see." 

Having acquired, I can hardly tell why or wherefore, a 
sheep-like habit of following wherever he led, I spurred after 
him down a rough declivity, thick strewn with rolling stones 
and pebbles. At the bottom of this descent, a dreary sun- 
burnt plain extended itself far and wide. Whilst we dis- 
mounted and halted a few minutes to give our horses breath, 
I could not help observing, that the view we were contem- 
plating but ill rewarded the risk of breaking our necks in 
riding down such rapid declivities. He smiled, and asked me 
whether I saw nothing at all interesting in the prospect. 



TO — . 371 

" Yes," said I, " a sort of caravan I perceive, about a quarter 
of a mile off, is by no means uninteresting ; that confused 
group of people in scarlet, with gleaming arms, and sumpter- 
mules, and those striped awnings stretched from ruined walls, 
present exactly that kind of scenery I should expect to meet 
with in the neighbourhood of Grand Cairo." " Come then," 
said he, "it is time to clear up this mystery, and tell you for 
what purpose we have taken such a long and fatiguing ride. 
The caravan which strikes you as being so very picturesque, is 
composed of the attendants of the Prince of Brazil, who has 
been passing the whole day upon a shooting party, and is just 
at this moment taking a little repose beneath yonder awnings. 
It was by his desire I brought you here, for I have his com- 
mands to express his wishes of having half an hour's conver- 
sation with you, unobserved, and in perfect incognito. "Walk 
on, as if you were collecting plants, or taking sketches ; I will 
apprize his Royal Highness, and you will meet, as it were, by 
chance, and without any form." 



LETTER XCIX. 



Sir Walter Scott to the Countess Purgstall. — 
Some Account of Himself. 

Captain Basil Hall's visit to the romantic castle of the Countess 
Purgstall, the early friend of Scott, and the probable original of 
Diana Vernon 45 , has been related by himself with the engaging 
liveliness which his pen communicates to every story. Born in 
Scotland, 1760, Miss Cranstoun married a German nobleman, whom 
she accompanied to his estates in Lower Styria. Her life was 
presently overcast. Her husband died in 1811, and her only child 
a youth of surprising abilities and acquirements, was taken from 

* Rob Roy was the only one of his novels which Sir Walter omitted to 
send to his early friend. 

Q 2 



372 SIR WALTER SCOTT 

her in the flower of his years. The widowed mother never 
recovered from the second visitation. Captain Hall found her 
upon that bed on which her son had expired seventeen years 
before. The following letter, although it never reached its desti- 
nation, was written by Sir "Walter Scott, on the receipt of a little 
work, consecrated by the Countess to the memory of her husband 
and child. It was printed by Captain Hall from a copy fortunately 
preserved by Mr. Lockhart. The verses have not been found. 



1820. 

My dear and much valued Friend, 

You cannot imagine how much I was interested and 
affected by receiving your token of your kind recollection, 
after the interval of so many years. Your brother Henry 
breakfasted with me yesterday, and gave me the letter and 
book, which served me as matter of much melancholy reflec- 
tion for many hours. Hardly anything makes the mind 
recoil so much upon itself as the being suddenly and strongly 
recalled to times long past, and that by the voice of one whom 
we have so much loved and respected. Do not think I have 
forgotten you, or the many happy days I passed in Frederick- 
street, in society which fate separated so far, and for so many 
years. The little volume was particularly acceptable to me, 
as it acquainted me with many circumstances, of which 
distance and imperfect communication had left me either 
entirely ignorant, or had transmitted only inaccurate informa- 
tion. Alas, my dear friend ! what can the utmost efforts of 
friendship offer you, beyond the sympathy which, however 
sincere, must sound like an empty compliment in the ear of 
affliction. God knows with what willingness I would under- 
take anything which might afford you the melancholy conso- 
lation of knowing how much your old and early friend 
interests himself in the sad event which has so deeply 
wounded your peace of mind. The verses, therefore, which 
conclude this letter, must not be weighed according to their 



TO THE COUNTESS PURGSTALL. 373 

intrinsic value, for the more inadequate they are to express 
the feelings they would fain convey, the more they show the 
author's anxious wish to do what may be grateful to you. 

In truth, I have long given up poetry. I have had my 
day with the public ; and being no great believer in poetical 
immortality, I was very well pleased to rise a winner without 
continuing the game, till I was beggared of any credit I had 
acquired. Besides, I felt the prudence of giving way before 
the more forcible and powerful genius of Byron. If I were 
either greedy, or jealous of poetical fame — and both are 
strangers to my nature— I might comfort myself with the 
thought that I would hesitate to strip myself to the contest 
so completely as Byron does ; or to command the wonder and- 
terror of the public, by exhibiting, in my own person, the 
sublime attitude of the dying gladiator. But with the old 
frankness of twenty years since, I will fairly own, that this 
same delicacy of mine may arise more from conscious want of 
vigour and inferiority, than from a delicate dislike to the 
nature of the conflict. At any rate, there is a time for every- 
thing, and without swearing oaths to it, I think my time for 
poetry has gone by. 

My health suffered horribly last year, I think from over 
labour and excitation ; and though it is now apparently 
restored to its usual tone, yet during the long and painful 
disorder, (spasms in the stomach,) and the frightful process of 
cure, by a prolonged use of calomel, I learned that my frame 
was made of flesh, and not of iron, — a conviction which I will 
long keep in remembrance, and avoid any occupation so 
laborious and agitating as poetry must be, to be worth 
anything. 

In this humour, I often think of passing a few weeks on 
the continent — a summer vacation if I can — and of course my 
attraction to Gratz would be very strong. I fear this is the 
only chance of our meeting in this world, we, who once saw 



374 SIR WALTER SCOTT 

each other daily*; for I understand from George and Henry, 
that there is little chance of your coming here. And 
when I look around me, and consider how many changes you 
will see in feature, form, and fashion, amongst all you knew 
and loved ; and how much, no sudden squall or violent tem- 
pest, but the slow and gradual progress of life's long voyage, 
has seyered all the gallant fellowships whom you left spread- 
ing their sails to the morning breeze, I really am not sure 
that you would have much pleasure. The gay and wild 
romance of life is over with all of us. The real, dull, and 
stern history of humanity, has made a far greater progress 
over our heads ; and age, dark and unlovely, has laid his 
crutch over the stoutest fellows' shoulders. One thing your 
old society may boast, that they have all run their course 
with honour, and almost all with distinction; and the brother- 
suppers of Frederick-street have certainly made a very con- 
siderable figure in the world, as was to be expected from her 
talents, under whose auspices they were assembled. 

One of the most pleasing sights which you would see in 
Scotland, as it now stands, would be your brother George in 
possession of the most beautiful and romantic place in Clydes- 
dale — Corehouse. I have promised often to go out with 
him, and assist him with my deep experience as a planter and 
landscape gardener. I promise you my oaks will outlast my 
laurels ; and I pique myself more upon my compositions for 
manure, than on any other compositions whatever to which I 
was ever accessory. But so much does business of one sort 
or other engage us both, that we have never been able to fix 
a time which suited us both ; and with the utmost wish to 
make out the party, perhaps we never may. 

* Sir Walter, when a young man, was "received in the most friendly 
terms by the family of the celebrated Dugald Stewart, of which the Countess, 
then Miss Cranstoun, and eldest sister of Mrs. Stewart, was a member. This 
intimacy led Sir Walter, very early in life, to consult Miss Cranstoun about 
his literary productions."— Basil Hull. 



TO THE COUNTESS PtTRGSTALL. 375 

This is a melancholy letter, but it is chiefly so from the 
sad tone of yours, who have had such real disasters to lament, 
while mine is only the humourous sadness, which a retrospect 
on human life is sure to produce on the most prosperous. 
For my own course of life, I have only to be ashamed of its 
prosperity, and afraid of its termination; for I have little 
reason, arguing on the doctrine of chances, to hope that the 
same good fortune will attend me for ever. I have had an 
affectionate and promising family, many friends, few unfriends, 
and, I think, no enemies — and more of fame and fortune than 
mere literature ever procured for a man before. I dwell 
among my own people, and have many whose happiness is 
dependant upon me, and which I study to the best of my 
power. I trust my temper, which you know is by nature 
good and easy, has not been spoiled by flattery or prosperity; 
and therefore I have escaped entirely that irritability of dis- 
position which I think is planted, like the slave in the poet's 
chariot, to prevent his enjoying his triumph. Should things^ 
therefore, change with me — and in these times, or indeed in 
any times, such change is to be apprehended — I trust I shall 
be able to surrender these adventitious advantages, as I would 
my upper dress, as something extremely comfortable, but 
which I can make shift to do without. 



LETTER C. 



Sir Stamford Raffles to the Duchess of Somerset. — 
Curious Information respecting the Cannibalism of 
the Bait as. 

Sir Stamford Raffles has been compared with Bishop Heber ; 
not, indeed, in brilliancy of classical acquii-ement, for Raffles was 
of lowly parentage ; nor in beauty and freshness of fancy, for 
Raffles had no poetic feelings, except those which are common to 
every amiable and cultivated mind : the resemblance is to be 



376 SIR STAMFORD RAFFLES 

traced in the moral, not in the intellectual features ; — in love of 
home ; in fidelity of friendship ; in purity of life and conversation. 
In all the loveliest graces that adorn and sanctify the human cha- 
racter, we discover a relationship between the Christian statesman 
and the Christian prelate ; and we may turn from the Journal of 
Heber to the Correspondence of Raffles, without interrupting the 
serenity of mind which that beautiful work always produces among 
the precious collections, — the fruit of so many years of diligent 
labour and inquiry, — which were lost in the homeward passage 
by the burning of the vessel, were copious memoirs for a history 
of the island of Sumatra. 



Off Sumatra, Feb. 12, 1820. 
You will, perhaps, have condemned me for so long a silence; 
yet, when you know the cause, I am satisfied you will cease 
to think unkindly. J have been ill, very ill, so much so, that 
for the last month of my stay in Calcutta, I was confined to 
my bed, and forbidden to write, or even to think. I was 
removed from my room to the ship with very little strength, 
but I am happy to say that I am already nearly recovered ; 
the sight of Sumatra, and the health-inspiring breezes of the 
Malayan Islands, have effected a wonderful change; and, 
though I still feel weak, and am as thin as a scarecrow, I 
may fairly say that I am in good health and spirits. I am 
beginning to turn my thoughts homeward, and shall ask your 
advice on a thousand pursuits. 

I have just left Tappanooly, situated in the very heart of 
the Batta country, abounding in camphor and benjamin, and 
full of interest for the naturalist and the philosopher. If you 
have occasionally looked into Mr. Marsden's History of Su- 
matra, you will recollect that the Battas are cannibals. 

Now do not be surprised at what I shall tell you regarding 
them, for I tell the truth, and nothing but the truth. To 
prepare you a little, I must premise, that the Battas are an 
extensive and populous nation of Sumatra, occupying the 
whole of that part of the island lying between Acheen and 



TO THE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET. 377 

Menangkabu, reaching to both the shores. The coast is but 
thinly inhabited, but in the interior the people are said to be 
"as thick as the leaves of the forest;" perhaps the whole 
nation may amount to between one and two millions of souls. 
They have a regular government, deliberate assemblies, and 
are great orators ; nearly the whole of them write, and they 
possess a language and written character peculiar to them- 
selves. In their language and terms, as well as in some of 
their laws and usages, the influence of Hinduism may be 
traced ; but they have also a religion peculiar to themselves ;., 
they acknowledge the one and only great God, under the title 
of Dibata Assi- Assi, and they have a Trinity of great gods r 
supposed to have been created by him. They are warlike^, 
extremely fair, and honourable in all their dealings, and most 
deliberate in all their proceedings : their country is highly 
cultivated, and crimes are few. The evidence adduced by 
Mr. Marsden must have removed all doubt from every unpre- 
judiced mind, that, notwithstanding all this in their favour, 
the Battas are strictly cannibals; but he has not gone half far 
enough. He seems to consider, that it is only in cases of 
prisoners taken in war, or in extreme cases of adultery, that 
the practice of man-eating is resorted to, and then, that it is 
only in a fit of revenge. He tells us that, not satisfied with 
cutting off pieces and eating them raw, instances have been 
known, where some of the people have run up to the victim, 
and actually torn the flesh from the bones with their teeth. 
He also tells us, that one of our residents found the remains 
of an English soldier, who had been only half-eaten, and 
afterwards discovered his finger sticking on a fork, laid by, 
but first taken warm from the fire ; but I had rather refer 
your Grace to the book; and if you have not got it, pray send 
for it, and read all that is said about the Battas. 

In a small pamphlet, lately addressed to the Court of 
Directors, respecting the coast, an instance still more horrible 
than anything related by Mr. Marsden is introduced ; and as 

<43 



378 SIR STAMFORD RAFFLES 

this pamphlet was written by a high authority, and the fact 
is not disputed, there can be no question as to its correctness ; 
it is nearly as follows : — A few years ago, a man had been 
found guilty of a very common crime, and was sentenced to 
be eaten according to the law of the land ; this took place 
close to Tappanooly ; the Resident was invited to attend ; he 
declined, but his assistant and a native officer were present. 
As soon as they reached the spot, they found a large assem- 
blage of people, and the criminal tied to a tree, with his 
hands extended. The minister of justice, who was himself a 
Chief of some rank, then came forward with a large knife in 
his hand, which he brandished, as he approached the victim. 
He was followed by a man carrying a dish, in which was a 
preparation, or condiment, composed of' limes, chillies, and 
salt, called by the Malays Sambul. He then called aloud for 
the injured husband, and demanded what part he chose; he 
replied, the right ear, which was immediately cut off with 
one stroke, and delivered to the party, who, turning round 
to the man behind, deliberately dipped it into the Sambul, 
and devoured it; the rest of the party then fell upon the 
body, each taking and eating the part most to his liking. 
After they had cut off a considerable part of the flesh, one 
man stabbed him to the heart ; but this was rather out of 
compliment to the foreign visitors, as it is by no means the 
custom to give the coup de grace. 

It was with a knowledge of all these facts regarding the 
Battas, that I paid a visit to Tappanooly, with a determina- 
tion to satisfy my mind most fully on everything concerning 
cannibalism. I had previously set on foot extensive inquiries, 
and so managed matters as to concentrate the information, 
and to bring the point within a narrow compass. You shall 
now hear the result ; but, before I proceed, I must beg of 
you to have a little more patience than you had with Mr. 
Mariner. I recollect, that, when you came to the story of 
eating the aunt, you threw the book down. Now, I can 



TO THE DUCHESS OP SOMERSET. 379 

assure your Grace, that I have ten times more to report, and 
you must believe me. I have said the Battas are not a bad 
people, and I still think so, notwithstanding they eat one 
another, and relish the flesh of a man better than that of an 
ox or a pig. You must merely consider that I am giving 
you an account of a novel state of society. The Battas are 
not savages, for they read and write, and think full as much, 
and more, than those who are brought up at our Lancasterian 
and National Schools. They have also codes of laws, of great 
antiquity ; and it is from a regard for these laws, and a vene- 
ration for the institutions of their ancestors, that they eat 
each other. The law declares that, for certain crimes, four* 
in number, the criminals shall be eaten alive. The same 
law declares, also, that in great wars, that is to say, one district 
with another, it shall be lawful to eat the prisoners, whether 
taken alive, dead, or in their graves. In the four great cases 
of crimes, the criminal is also duly tried and condemned by a 
competent tribunal. When the evidence is heard, sentence is 
pronounced, when the Chiefs drink a dram each, which last 
ceremony is equivalent to signing and sealing with us. Two 
or three days then elapse, to give time for assembling the 
people ; and, in cases of adultery, it is not allowed to carry 
the sentence into effect, unless the relations of the wife appear 
and partake of the feast. The j>risoner is then brought for- 
ward on the day appointed, and fixed to a stake, with his 
hands extended. The husband, or party injured, comes up, and 
takes the first choice, generally the earst. The rest, then, 
according to their rank, take the choice pieces, each helping 
himself according to his liking. After all have partaken, the 

* But see Sir Stamford's Letter to Mr. Marsden, where five cases are 
enumerated. " The laws by which these sentences are inflicted are called 
huhum pinang an, from depang, an to eat — law or sentence to eat." — Memoir 
by his Widow, p. 432. 

t It is probable that he suffers more from the loss of his ear than from 
what follows ; indeed, he is said to give one shriek when that is taken off, 
and then to continue silent till death. — Letter to Mr. Marsden, Feb. 27, 1800. 



380 SIR STAMFORD RAFFLES 

chief person goes up and cuts off the head, which he carries 
home as a trophy. The head is hung up in front of the 
house, and the brains are carefully preserved in a bottle, for 
the purposes of witchcraft, &c. In devouring the flesh, it is 
sometimes eaten raw, and sometimes grilled; but it must be 
eaten upon the spot. Limes, salt, and pepper, are always in 
readiness, and they sometimes eat rice with the flesh; but 
they never drink toddy or spirits. Many carry bamboos 
with them, and, filling them with blood, drink it off. The 
assembly consists of men alone, as the flesh of man is pro- 
hibited to the females ; it is said, however, that they get a 
bit by stealth now and then. I am assured, and really do 
believe, that many of the people do prefer human flesh to any 
other ; but, notwithstanding this penchant, they never indulge 
the appetite except on lawful occasions. The palms of the 
hands, and the soles of the feet, are the delicacies of epicures ! 
On expressing my surprise at the continuance of such 
extraordinary practices, I was informed, that formerly it was 
usual for people to eat their parents when too old for work. 
The old people selected the horizontal branch of a tree, and 
quietly suspended themselves by their hands, while their 
children and neighbours forming a circle, danced round them, 
crying out, " when the fruit is ripe, then it will fall." This 
practice took place during the season of limes, when salt and 
pepper were plenty, and as soon as the victims became 
fatigued, and could hold on no longer, they fell down, when 
all hands cut them up, and made a hearty meal of them. 
The practice, however, of eating the old people has been 
abandoned, and thus a step in civilization has been attained, 
and, therefore, there are hopes of future improvement. This 
state of society you will admit to be very peculiar, and it 
is calculated that certainly not less than from sixty to one 
hundred Battas are thus eaten in a year in times of peace. 
I was going on to tell your Grace much about the treatment of 
the females and children, but I find that I have already filled 



TO THE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET. 381 

several sheets, and that I am called away from the cabin ; I 
will therefore conclude, with entreating yon not to think the 
worse of me for this horrible relation. You know that I am 
far from wishing to paint any of the Malay race in the worst 
colours, but yet I must tell the truth. Notwithstanding the 
practices I have related, it is my determination to take Lady 
Raffles into the interior, and to spend a month or two in the 
midst of these Battas. Should any accident occur to us, or 
should Ave never be heard of more, you may conclude we 
have been eaten. 

I am half afraid to send this scrawl, and yet it may 
amuse you : if it does not, throw it into the fire ; and still 
believe that, though half a cannibal, and living among 
cannibals, I am not less warm in heart and soul. In the 
deepest recesses of the forest, and among the most savage of 
all tribes, my heart still clings to those far off, and I do 
believe, were I present at a Batta feast, I should be thinking 
of kind friends at Maiden Bradly. "What an association 1 
God forgive me and bless you all. 

I am forming a collection of skulls; some from bodies 
that have been eaten. Will your Grace allow them room 
among your curiosities ? 



LETTER CI. 



Sou they to Sir Egerton Brydges. — Affecting History 
of the Poet Bampfylde* . 

This beautiful letter was first printed in 1831, in the Anglo- 
Genevan Journal. Bampfylde was a poet of genuine taste and 

* " Let us see Chatterton, with the howl of poison before him ; Collins, 
in the calm and melancholy intervals of his shrieking delusion ; and Bamp- 
fylde, neglected and lonely, and poverty-struck, on the Alpine mountains, 
yet cheering himself with poetry, and lost in the bosom of the muse."-^Sfr 
Egerton Brydges, 



382 SOUTHEY 

feeling, who looked out upon nature with the eye of Thomson or 
Cowper. He has, indeed, bequeathed to us only a few sketches, 
hut they show the colours and vigour of his pencil. His sonnet 
upon a wet summer displays the picturesque selection, and the 
homely simplicity of Bowles. 

All ye, who far from town, in rural hall, 

Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, 
Enjoying all the sunny-day did yield, 
With me the change lament, in irksome thrall, 
By rains incessant held ; for now no call 
From early swain invites my hand to wield 
The scythe ; in parlour dim I sit concealed, 
And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall ; 

Or 'neath my window view the wistful train, 
Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves 
Shelter no more. — Mute is the mournful plain, 
Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, 
And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, 
Counting the frequent drops from reeded eaves. 



Sir, Keswick, 10th May, 1809. 

I hold myself greatly indebted to you not only for 
the list of authors, but for the very gratifying manner in 
which you have introduced my name in the Censura Litera- 
ria. That list, with another of equal length, for which the 
selections were prepared for the press, but omitted during the 
course of publication by the friend who undertook to super- 
intend it, will enable me, in an additional volume, to supply 
the bibliographical defects of the work. It gives me great 
pleasure to hear that Bampfylde's remains are to be edited. 
The circumstances Avhich I did not mention concerning him 
are these. They were related to me by Jackson, of Exeter, 
and minuted down immediately afterwards, when the im- 
pression which they made upon me was warm. 

He was the brother of Sir Charles, as you say. At the 
time when Jackson became intimate with him, he was just 
in his prime, and had no other wish than to live in solitude, 



TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 383 

and amuse himself with poetry and music. He lodged in 
a farm-house near Chudleigh, and would oftentimes come to 
Exeter in a winter-morning, ungloved and open-breasted, 
before Jackson was up, (though he was an early riser,) with 
a pocket full of music or poems, to know how he liked them. 
His relations thought this was a sad life for a man of family, 
and forced him to London. The tears ran down Jackson's 
cheeks when he told me the story. " Poor fellow," said he, 
" there did not live a purer creature, and, if they would have 
let him alone, he might have been alive now." 

When he was in London, his feelings having been forced 
out of their proper channel, took a wrong direction, and he 
soon began to suffer the punishment of debauchery. The 
Miss Palmer, to whom he dedicated his Sonnets, (afterwards, 
and perhaps still, Lady Inchiquin) was niece to Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. Whether Sir Joshua objected to his addresses on 
accpunt of his irregularities in London, or on other grounds, 
I know not; but this was the commencement of his madness. 
He was refused admittance into the house; upon this, in a 
fit of half anger and half derangement, he broke the windows, 
and was (little to Sir Joshua's honour,) sent to Newgate. 
Some weeks after this happened, Jackson went to London, 
and one of his first inquiries was for Bampfylde. Lady 
Bampfylde, his mother, said she knew little or nothing about 
him ; that she had got him out of Newgate, and he was now 
in some beggarly place. " Where V " In King-street, Hol- 
born, she believed, but she did not know the number of 
the house." Away went Jackson, and knocked at every 
door till he found the right* It was a truly miserable place : 
the woman of the house was one of the worst class of women 
in London. She knew that Bampfylde had no money, and 
that at that time he had been three days without food. 
When Jackson saw him, there was all the levity of madness 
in his manners; his shirt was ragged, and black as a coal- 
heaver's, and his beard of a two month's growth. Jackson 



384 SOUTHEY 

sent out for food, and said he was come to breakfast with 
him; and he turned aside to a harpsichord in the room, 
literally he said to let him gorge himself without being noticed. 
He removed him from hence, and, after giving his mother a 
severe lecture, obtained for him a decent allowance, and left 
him, when he himself quitted town, in decent lodgings, 
earnestly begging him to write. 

But he never wrote : the next news was, that he was in 
a private madhouse, and Jackson never saw him more. 
Almost the last time they met, he showed him several 
poems, among others, a ballad on the murder of David Rizzio; 
such a ballad! said he. He came that day to dine with 
Jackson, and was asked for copies. " I burned them," was 
the reply, " I wrote them to please you; you did not seem 
to like them, so I threw them into the fire." After twenty 
years' confinement he recovered his senses, but not till he 
was dying of consumption. The apothecary urged him to 
leave Sloane-street, (where he had always been as kindly 
treated as he could be,) and go into his own country, saying 
that his friends in Devonshire would be very glad to see him. 
But he hid his face and answered, " No, sir ; they who knew 
me what I was, shall never see me what I am." Some of 
these facts I should have inserted in the specimens, had not 
Coleridge mislaid the letter in which I had written them 
down, and it was not found till too late. 

[There is a chasm here in the letter : it goes o«,[] 

He read the preface to me. I remember that it dwelt 
much upon his miraculous genius for music, and even made 
it intelligible to me, who am no musician. He knew nothing 
of the science, but would sit down to the harpsichord and 
produce combinations so wild, that no composer would have 
ventured to think of, and yet so beautiful in their effect, that 
Jackson (an enthusiast concerning music,) spoke of them 
after the lapse of twenty years with astonishment and tears. 

You have noticed the death of Henry Kirke White, of 



TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 385 

Nottingham, whose Remains I have prepared for the press. 
Should the enclosed specimens of his poetry please you, as I 
think they cannot fail to do, you will perhaps give them a 
place in the Censura. They have never been printed. Had 
he lived, I am persuaded that he would have placed himself 
in the first rank of English poets. 

There is a class of books of which as yet you have taken 
no notice, — the prose romances*. They have had a greater 
effect upon our literature than has been supposed. On 
reading Amadis of Greece, I have found Spenser's Mask of 
Cupid, Sir Philip Sidney's Zelmane, and Shakspeare's 
Florizel. The latter, by name, going to court a shepherdess, 
who proves, of course, a princess at last. Was ever any 
single work honoured with such imitators! The French 
romances which followed (those of Oalprenade, the Scudery's, 
&c.,) were the great store-houses from whence Lee, and the 
dramatists of that age, drew their plots. 

These considerations may induce you to give some atten- 
tion to them in your very useful work. 

Robert Southey. 

* The reader will find a popular and interesting account of the Romances 
of Chivalry, and of Amadis in particular, at the beginning of the second 
volume of Dunlop's History of Fiction. The Adventures of Amadis of 
Greece, form an episode in the voluminous history of the family of Amadis 
de Gaul, which is supposed to have been written by a Portuguese officer, 
named Vasco Lobeira, who died in 1403, or according to Sismondi, in 1325. 
Several French writers, on the other hand, assert the work to have been 
composed in France, either in the reign of Philip Augustus, or one of his 
predecessors. Southey ascribes it to Lobeira, who, he says, was the "first 
romance writer who formed a clear and connected plan, and bore it 
steadily in mind throughout the whole progress of his narrative. The skill 
with which his fable is constructed, is not less admirable than the beauty of 
the incidents, and the distinctness with which the characters are conceived 
and delineated. Amadis infinitely surpasses every earlier romance in all 
these points, and has not been equalled in either of them by any of later 
date."— Preface to the Byrih, Lyf, and Actes of King Arthur, vol. i. p. 32- 
1817. 



SOUTIIEY 



LETTER Oil. 



The Same to the Same. — Beautiful Criticisms upon 
Old Authors. — Character of Leicester. 

My dear Sir, Keswick, 16th June, 1830. 

I thank you for your letter, — for Oldys's Notes con- 
cerning Sir William Davenant, which your son has obligingly 
transcribed for me ; and for some very interesting books, part 
the produce of the Lee Priory press, and part the result of 
your unwearied industry on the continent. The Gnomica* I 
have been reading with the greatest delight, which has been 
not a little enhanced by perceiving how frequently my 
thoughts have been travelling in the same direction with 
yours : charges of plagiarism, indeed, have often been made 
upon much lighter grounds than might be found in this volume 
of yours, for accusing me of it in my last work. Had I known 
this a little sooner, it should have been noticed in the second 
edition of that work. Few works have ever fallen in my 
way which contain so many golden remarks as these Gnomica. 

That portion of the Tkeatrum Poetarum, which you 
printed at Canterbury t, I purchased when it was first pub- 
lished, and was now very glad to receive the whole work, 
with more of your own remarks, and in so beautiful a form. 

Your edition of Sir Philip Sidney's Life J I have been 

* Of this work, published at Geneva, in 1814, and the most interesting of 
all Sir Egerton's productions, only seventy-five copies were printed. 

+ " When I printed; at a Canterbury press, a new edition of Edward 
Phillips's Theatrum Poetarum, about 1800, only one copy was sold at Can- 
terbury, and that was bought by Lord Kokeby." — Autobiography, vol i. p. 88. 

X The Life of Sidney, by his friend and schoolfellow, Lord Brooke, 
reprinted by Sir Egerton Brydges, in the year 1816, at the Lee Priory 
press. It was originally published in 1652, and Brooke, on the title-page, 
calls himself the " friend and companion " of Sidney. The memoir contains 
several passages of beautiful wisdom; but it must be always regretted, that 
he should have given us so few personal recollections of Sidney. How 
interesting they would have been, we can easily imagine from his own obser- 
vation : — "Though I lived with him, and knew him from a child, yet I 



TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 387 

fortunate enough to borrow by means of Longman. There is 
a curious passage respecting it in Pepys's Memoirs*, relating to 
a passage of prophetic foresight concerning the Dutch. This 
life, which is everywhere 'characteristic of its author, has led 
some writers astray concerning the age at which Sidney 
began his travels, owing, I have no doubt, to a mistake of 
figures in the manuscript, where seventeen must have been so 
written as to be taken for fourteen. 

You may have seen an impossible attempt of Dr. Aikin 
to comprise a complete collection of English poetry in one 
volume. He begins with a few pages of Ben Jonson, and 
then comes to Milton. Longman put it into my hands when 
it was just published; and I remarked to him, that Dr. Aikin 
had begun just where I should have ended, for everything 
which this volume contained was already accessible to readers 
of all classes. He remembered this, and applied to me lately 
to include such books of the earlier poets as the limits would 
admit, in a similar volume. I could have made a most valu- 
able book if he would have consented to let the volume be 
supplementary to Chalmers' and Anderson's collections ; but 
this did not suit his views ; so I could only reverse the pro- 
verb, and cut my cloth according to my coat. I have, how- 
ever, given the volume a special value by including Hawes's 
Pastime of Pleasure ; and, if the publisher could have been 
persuaded, I would have commenced it with that copy of 
Piers Ploughman, which is the intermediate one between 
Whittaker's and the old edition ; but he did not think the great 
service which might thus have been rendered to our litera- 

never knew him other than a man ; with such staidness of mind, lovely, and 
familiar gravity, as carried grace and reverence above greater years. His 
talk ever of knowledge, and his very play tending to enrich his mind ; so as 
even his teachers found in him something to observe, and learn, above that 
which they had usually read and tauglit." — Life of Sir Philip Sid?iey, p. 7. 
Ed. 1651. He tells us, that, upon one occasion, though unseen, he overheard 
Sidney's father call him the " light of his family, (lumen familiar sues.") 
* See Notes at the end of this Volume. 



388 SOUTHEY 

ture would be beneficial to his book : and I must think my- 
self fortunate in getting in old Tusser, Lord Brooke, and 
Chamberlain's Pharonnida, which fell in my way when I 
was a schoolboy. I did not know that any of my " Cid's" 
blood was running in English veins ; still less could I suppose, 
when translating the account of those proceedings at the 
Cortes, where he revenged the wrongs of his two daughters, 
(which is one of the sublimest passages of its kind,vthat it 
was a part of your family history. No descent can be more 
distinctly made out, and none could possibly pass through a 
more illustrious channel. 

There is a path leading from Keynsham towards Bristol, 
through what was formerly the park. It was very little fre- 
quented when I discovered it, six-and-thirty years ago, at 
which time I was in the habit of walking between Bath and 
Bristol, from one place to the other ; and I felt very strongly 
the picturesque and melancholy character of the scene, — me- 
lancholy only, because its days of grandeur were gone by. 
A small lodge was the only building which remained; but the 
grounds, though disparked, has still a parkish appearance, in 
the old hawthorns which were standing here and there, and 
in their inequalities, making it look as if there ought to have 
been deer there. It was the only part of the walk in which 
I habitually slackened my pace. 

I have very recently added your edition of Collins's 
Peerage to my library, and it makes me regret the more that 
you should not have executed your intentions of writing bio- 
graphy upon an extensive scale : it can never be well written 
except by one whose mind is at once comprehensive and scru- 
tinizing, and who unites an antiquary's patience with a poet's 
feeling. The poem regarding your own life I trust you will 
finish, and entreat you so to do ; but, at the same time, to 
bear in mind, that, if you have not done all that you dreamt 

of doing, and could have done this is the common, and, 

perhaps, the inevitable lot of all who are conscious of their 



TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 389 

own power ; and that you have done much which posterity 
will not willingly suffer to pass into oblivion. 

Lucien Buonaparte applied to me to translate his poem*. 
The application was made in a circuitous way by Brougham, 
and I returned, as was fitting, a courteous answer to what 
was intended as a flattering proposal, not thinking it necessary 
to observe, that an original poem might be composed at no 
greater expense of time, and with the certainty of satisfying 
one person at least, whereas in the translation I was, perhaps, 
as likely to displease the author as myself. I read the 
original when it was printed, which few persons did : one 
part of it pleased me much ; and the whole was better con- 
ceived than a Frenchman could have conceived it; but I could 
not forgive him for writing it in French instead of Italian, nor 
for adapting it to the meridian of the Vatican. Butler's 
translation I never saw. He has restored the character of 
the school at Shrewsbury, which was upon a par with the 
best in England when Sidney and Fulke Greville were placed 
there on the same day ; and when the boys represented plays 
in an open amphitheatre, formed in an old quarry between 
the town walls and the Severn. Churchyard describes it. 

The stanzas in the Gnomica, p. 163, might have passed 
for a fragment of Gondibertf; they have just that tone of 

* Charlemagne. 

t Sir Egerton says that he wrote the stanzas alluded to, January 7, 
1823, under the painful conviction of the vanity of worldly friendships. 

If the calm wisdom, which, in sober age, 

Teaches the mazy paths of life to thread, 
In youth were ours, we, by a gradual stage, 

Should gently journey to our mortal bed. 

False faith, false hopes, false pleasures, lead us on ; 

Till deep entangled in delusion's net, 
(The moment of escape for ever gone,) 

In lasting chains of ruin we are set. 

For wild desires, which, when possess'd, bestow 

Scarce a short moment of uncertain joy, 
We pay long lingering years of certain woe, 

Which patience cannot soothe, nor pain destroy. 



390 SOUTHEY 

thoughtful feeling which distinguishes that poem above all 
others, and owing to which, (faulty as in many respects it is,) 
I never take it up without deriving fresh pleasure from it, and 
being always unwilling to lay it aside. A little, I think, he 
learnt from Sir John Davies, — more from Lord Brooke, who 
is the most thoughtful of all poets. Davenant has less 
strength of mind, or morals, (as his conversion to popery 
proves,) but more feeling : with him the vein ended. You 
trace a little of it in Dryden's earlier poems; not later. 
You have admirably characterized the poets of Charles the 
Second's age, in your preface to the Theatrum Poetarum. 

Do you recollect the portrait of Sidney, prefixed to Dr. 
Zouch's Life of him, from a picture by Velasquez, at Went- 
worth Castle ? It is a good likeness of Professor Airey, the 
Cambridge mathematician, who was a youthful prodigy in 
his own science ; but it bears no resemblance whatever either 
to the miniature which you have engraved, or to the portrait 
in the Sidney Papers. I am inclined to suspect, therefore, 
that it is not his portrait, especially as that w T ant of resem- 
blance leads me very much to doubt whether Sidney ever 
could have sat to Velasquez. The countenance in the minia- 
ture is feebler than I should have looked for, — more maidenly : 
and that, again, in the Sidney Papers, has a character, (quite 



To catch the favour, that will never come; 

To win the praise, that is an idle sound; 
On others' wanton will we fix our doom ; 

And in the yoke of servitude are bound. 

There is no bliss, but on ourselves depends ; 

There is no mercy in another's heart; 
No anchor-ground in hearts of fickle friends; 

No fountain, that will aid in need impart. 

The feeblest power in hand, (which prudence heeds 

Too lightly, the most humble wish to fill,) 
In true substantial value far exceeds 

The chance of empires at another's will ! 

Gnomica, pp. 163, 164. 



TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 391 

as inappropriate,) of middle age, and is not without a certain 
degree of coarseness *. 

The Sidney Papers have induced me to judge less unfa- 
vourably than I was used to do of Leicester, and rather to 
agree with my excellent friend, Sharon Turner, in thinking 
his character doubtful, than decidedly bad. The strongest 
fact against him is what Strada states, that he engaged, 
through the Spanish ambassador, to bring about the restora- 
tion of the old religion, if Philip would favour him in his 
hopes of marrying the queen. Strada affirms that, upon the 
authority of the ambassador's letters : and I cannot satisfac- 
torily explain it, as being only part of a scheme for obtaining 
the confidence of the Spanish court, and becoming thereby 
better acquainted with the schemes of its confederates in 
England. On the other hand, the character of Sir Henry 
Sidney seems to me, in a certain degree, a guarantee for 
Leicester's intentions, — so is Sir Philip's too ; and Leicester's 
friendship for his brother-in-law, and evidently sincere affec- 
tion for his nephew, tell greatly in his favour. There are, 
also, expressions in his will, and touches of feeling, which 
may surely be considered as sincere indications, not merely of 
the state of mind in which the will was written, but of the 

* A beautiful picture of Sidney is given in an elegy, written, according 
to Nash's Preface to Greene's Arcadia, by Matthew Roydon, but possessing, 
in parts, the tenderness of Spenser : 

A sweet attractive kind of grace, 

A full assurance given by looks, v 
Continued comfort in a face, 

The lineaments of gospel books; 
I trowe that countenance cannot lie, 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 

Spenser dwells, in two or three places, upon the gentleness of Sir Philip's 
character; it seems to have been his distinguishing feature; thus, in the 
Ruines of Time, he calls him 

Most gentle spirit breathed from above, 
and in the verses, consecrated to his memory, he affectionately records his 
Gentle usage, and demeanure myld. 



392 SOUTHEY TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 

habit of mind. What a most affecting thing is his mother's 
will ! In the reverence which Sidney must have felt for her 
memory, and in his grateful affection for his uncle, you may, 
I think, account, — and perhaps find an excuse,— for the man- 
ner in which he speaks of his Dudley descent, — even his father 
taught him to pride himself upon it. Farewell, my dear sir, 
and believe me, &c, &c, 

Robert Southey. 



LETTER CHI. 



Sir Thomas to Lady Munro. — Delightful Picture of 
Childhood. 

Mr. Canning's eloquent tribute to Munro was not the empty 
flourish of the rhetorician. " Europe," he said, •■ never produced 
a more accomplished statesman, nor India, so fertile in heroes, a 
more skilful soldier.' ' But his claims upon our heart are not less 
powerful than upon our admiration. The letters addressed to his 
wife, who had been obliged to accompany their second son to Eng- 
land, for the restoration of his health, are full of beauty, affection, 
and truth. . It is scarcely necessary to observe, that Sir Thomas 
Munro was governor of Madras, or that he fell a victim to cholera, 
during a visit to the southern provinces in July 1827. 



Guindy, 2nd April, 1826. 
We came here last night for the first time since you went 
away ; Colonel Carpae and I drove out together. We alighted 
at the old place near the well. It was nearly dark, and we 
passed through the garden without finding you. We had 
nobody in the evening but Captain Watson, which I was glad 
of. He* has got the floors covered with new mats, which 
smell like hay ; but they are of no use, when those for whom 
they were intended are gone. The cause which occasions the 
desertion of this house gives everything about it a melancholy 



SIR THOMAS TO LADY MUNRO. 393 

appearance. I dislike to enter Kamen's* room. I never pass 
it without thinking of that sad night when I saw him lying 
in Rosa's lap, with leeches on his head, the tears streaming 
down his face, crying with fear and pain, and his life uncer- 
tain. His image in that situation is always present to me, 
whenever I think of this house. I walked out this morning 
at daylight. I followed Captain Watson's new road, which 
is now made hard with gravel, as far as the place where it 
divides ; but on reaching this point, instead of turning to the 
left, as we used to do, I continued along the main branch to 
the little tank, and there halted a few minutes to admire the 
view of the distant hills. I then turned towards the garden, 
where I always found you, and Kamen trotting before you, 
except when he stayed behind to examine some ant-hole. 
How delightful it was to see him walking, or running, or 
stopping, to endeavour to explain something with his hands 
to help his language. How easy, and artless, and beautiful, 
are all the motions of a child f ! Everything that he does is 
graceful. All his little ways are endearing, and they are 
the arms which Nature has given him for his protection, 

* His son Campbell's nursery name. 

t Sir Joshua Reynolds has the same sentiment. Genius has always 
delighted to say beautiful things of childhood. Take three pictures: — 
The grace of parting infancy, 

By blushes yet untamed ; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee, 
Nor of her arms ashamed! 

Wordsworth upon "a Jewish Family." 

No man can tell buthe that loves his children, how many delicious accents 
make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges ; 
their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, 
their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and 
comfort to him that delights in their persons and society.— Jeremy Taylor. 
The Marriage Ring, Part II. 

At puer Ascanius mediis in vallibus acri 
Gaudet equo ; jamque hos cursu, jam praeterit illos ; 
Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis 
Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. 

Mneid, B. iv. 156. 
R 



394 SIR THOMAS 

because they make everybody feel an attachment fqr him. 
I have lost his society just at the time when it was most 
interesting. It was his tottering walk, his helplessness, and 
unconsciousness, that I liked. By the time I see him again, 
he will have lost all those qualities ; he will know how to 
behave himself; he will have acquired some knowledge of 
the world, and will not be half so engaging as he now is. I 
almost wish that he would never change. 



LETTER CIV. 



The Same to the Same. — Affecting recollections of 
domestic Happiness. — A solitary Home. 

Guindy, 11th of June, 1826. 
I have been reading and writing very hard all day, 
which always for the last year makes my hand shake so 
much, that I can hardly write. This is a sign that I have 
been long enough in a warm climate. The weather at this 
season has been cooler than ever I knew it at Madras. It 
has been continually over-cast all last week, which induced 
me to come out here yesterday evening, after the usual 
Saturday's dinner. I took a walk in the morning of an hour 
and a half, and ended with the garden, where everything is 
growing in great luxuriance. After getting out of the 
carriage yesterday evening, I looked at the new well, and 
found it had water enough to hold out till it got a fresh 
supply from the rains; but I did not find you or Kamen 
there, or in the drawing-room. I almost miss you both here 
more than at Madras, because we had fewer visiters, and I 
was more accustomed to see you and him quietly. Your 
rooms look very desolate; they are empty all day, and in 
the evening have one solitary lamp. I now go along the 
passage without seeing a human being, and often think of 



-^_ 



TO LADY MUNRO. 395 

him running out to pull my coat. I cannot tell you how 
much I long to see him playing again. I believe that I shall 
follow your father's example when I go home, in playing 
with the children. When you reach Craigie, give me a full 
account of Tom, and of all the points in which he is like, or 
unlike his brother. I have no letter from you since the 24th 
of March; and begin to fear that I shall not hear from you 
until your arrival in England. 

The troops are returning from Ava. Major Kelso arrived 
a few days ago, in command of the Kimendyne regiment. 
There is no chance of hostilities, as the Burmese are com- 
pletely tired of war. I am glad of it, as I can have no 
pretence for staying longer in the country ; and if the weather 
were not too hot for calling names, I would call them " bar- 
barous, and ferocious, and arrogant" for not letting me go 
home with you. I am quite at a loss to know what I am to 
do when I go home. Where are we to live! in town or 
country ? or both ? Are we to travel to see the world and 
sights, or to jaunt about in our own country, or to stay fixed 
in one place ? You must consider of all this, and be ready 
with a plan when we meet. Love to all at Craigie. 



LETTER CY. 



The Same to the Same. — Thoughts in a deserted 
Garden. 

Sir Thomas Muneo's touching allusions to his solitude, recall 
the verses of Bishop Heber upon a similar occasion, and which 
illustrate the letter. 

If thou wert by my side, my love, 

How fast would evening fail ; 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 

r2 



396 SIR THOMAS 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 
My babies at my knee, 

How gaily would our pinnace glide 
O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
When on our deck reclined ; 

For careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 



Madras, 29th June, 1826. 
As I understand that a ship for England has left 
Calcutta, and is to touch here, I shall begin a letter to you, 
because by this means I shall be ready at any time to send 
you one, whether it contains four lines or four pages. The 
China-men, and other ships lately arrived, have brought 
several letters from your friends. I shall send them all back 
to you, because you will I think, be sorry to lose some of 
them, and will like to read them all, if it were only for the 
sake of comparing the feelings with which you read them at 
home, and would have read them in India. I read them 
with pleasure; but would much rather have sat down in Mr. 
Elliott's chair and listened to you reading them, after return- 
ing from our evening ride or walk. I shall keep a letter 
from Tom to you, as it is on the same sheet with one from 
him to me, both in his own hand-writing. He is the only 
-one of the family whom I now see. I go into the room 
w T here his picture is every-day, for two minutes, on my way 
io the dining-room, or rather verandah. I think him more 
like Kamen than I used to do; and sometimes almost fancy 
that he looks happier since you went away. I am not sure, 
however, that there is any change. It is likely enough that, 
even when you were here, he looked as well pleased as now, 
but that I did not observe it. 



. 



TO LADY MUNRO. 397 

7th July. — I went to Guindy on Saturday evening, and 
shall probably not go there again before November, as I must 
set out on the 21st on a long journey to the Southern Pro- 
vinces. I took as usual a long walk on Sunday morning ; 
there had been so much rain, that the garden looked more 
fresh and beautiful than I ever saw it; but I found nobody 
there, except a boy guarding the mangoes and figs from the 
squirrels — not even the old French gardener. It was a great 
change from the time when I was always sure of finding you 
and Kamen there*. It is melancholy to think that you are 
never again to be in a place in which you took so much 
pleasure. This idea comes across me still more strongly 
when I enter the house, and pass from my own room to the. 
drawing-room, along the passage, now so silent and deserted,.. 
and formerly so noisy with your son and you, and his 
followers. It always makes me sad when I visit the place; 
but I shall be worse when I leave it, like you, for the last 
time. In my visits there I never have any strangers,— I 
generally go about once a fortnight. 

15th July. — I am now writing in my own room at Guin- 
dy. I did not expect to have come here again until after my 
return from our tour; but Captain Watson had arranged that 
the travelling baggage should come here, and start from 
hence to-morrow for Madranticum. I leave Madras on Fri- 
day (21st), after council, and go in the chaise to Polaveram, 
and then go into my palankin. Our journey will be a lon<x 
one, by Tanjore, Trichinopoly, and Madara, to Palamcottah, 
from thence to Dindigul and Coimbitore, to the Nilgheri- 
hills; and when we get there we shall be guided by the time 
of year in returning by Mysore or Salem, and the Baramahl. 
We shall have very hot weather a great part of our march, 

* As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, 
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 

Pleasures of Memory. 



398 SIR THOMAS. TO LADY MUNRO. 

but there is no help for it. We shall have the pleasure of 
travelling, and probably some cool days to reward us. 

I was in the garden this morning, — everything is growing 
in great luxuriance, but particularly the hinah and baboal 
hedges. The new well is half full. I looked on my way 
home, at what you call geraniums, but which seem to me to 
be more like wild potatoes. I stood for a minute admiring 
them, merely from the habit of doing so with you ; for, had 
I followed my own taste, I should as soon have thought of 
admiring a brick-kiln, as of gazing at a hundred red pots 
filled with weeds. There is something very melancholy in 
this house without you and your son. It has the air of some 
enchanted deserted mansion in romance. I often think of 
Kamen marching about the hall equipped for a walk, but 
resisting the ceremony of putting on his hat. 



LETTER CVI. 



William Wordsworth to Sir Walter Scott, upon the 
genius of Dry den. 

No person who has heard. Mr. Wordsworth dilate upon the 
classical school of English poetry, from Pope to Campbell, will 
expect to receive from his pen any enthusiastic eulogy of Dryden. 
The author of Mac Flecnoe could not have found a severer critic 
than the author of the Excursion. The works of that illustrious 
poet, whom Gray told Beattie not only to admire, but to be blind 
to all his faults, have been for some time passing into the study of* 
the scholar. No republication of any standard English writer, 
addressed to the general reader, obtains so moderate a circulation. 
Even his Fables have ceased to be a fire-side book. Mr. Words- 
worth thinks the translations from Boccacio, the most poetical of 
Dry den's productions; but the adaptation of the Flower and the 
Leaf, from Chaucer, possesses the most copious vein of fancy, the 
most picturesque combination of circumstances, and the most easy 



WORDSWORTH TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 399 

nmsic of narration*. A writer, not remarkable for poetical enthu- 
siasm, has expressed an opinion that " regarded merely as an exhi- 
bition of a soothing and delicious luxuriance of imagination, this 
poem deserves to be classed with the greatest efforts of human 
genius f." Neither these nor the following remarks are made 
in any presumptuous opposition to the opinion of the greatest 
poet of the present age, whose works have diffused a purer strain 
of philosophy than ever flowed from the lips of Dryden. 



Patterdale, Nov. 7, 1805. 
My dear Scott, 

I was much pleased to hear of your engagement with 
Dryden, not that he is, as a poet, any great favourite of mine. 
I admire his talents and genius highly; but his is not a 
poetical genius. The only qualities I can find in Dryden 
that are essentially poetical, are a certain ardour and impetu- 
osity of mind, with an excellent ear. It may seem strange 
that I do not add to this, great command of language : that 
he certainly has, and of such language, too, as it is most 
desirable that a poet should possess, or rather that he should 
not be without. But it is not language that is, in the highest 
sense of the word, poetical, being neither of the imagination 
nor of the passions; I mean the amiable, the ennobling, or 
the intense passions. I do not mean to say that there is 
nothing of this in Dryden, but as little, I think, as is possible, 
considering how much he has written. You will easily 
understand my meaning, when I refer to his versification of 
Palamon and Arcite, as contrasted with the language of 

* In no other poem has Dryden displayed such delicacy of description, 
and such beautiful chastity of imagery. Speaking of a path, he says, in 
language which recals an exquisite stanza omitted by Gray in his Elegy, 
In narrow mazes oft it seemed to meet, 
And looked as lightly pressed by fairy feet, 
t Godwin's Life of Chaucer, Vol. I. p. 344. " Do you wish," said Lord 
Byron, "for invention, imagination, sublimity, character 1 Seek them in the 
Rape of the Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, 
and Absalom and Achitophel." 



400 WORDSWORTH 

Chaucer. Dryden had neither a tender heart, nor a lofty 
sense of moral dignity. Whenever his language is poetically 
impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects, such as 
the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men or of individuals. 
That his cannot be the language of imagination, must have 
necessarily followed from this — that there is not a single 
image from nature in the whole body of his works*; and in 
his translation from Virgil, whenever Yirgil can be fairly said 
to have had his eye upon his object, Dryden always spoils 
the passage t. 

But too much of this; I am glad that you are to be his 
editor. His political and satirical pieces may be greatly 

* Sir Walter Scott differed from Mr. Wordsworth's estimate of Dryden's 
pictorial talents. " External pictures, and their corresponding influence on 
the spectator, are equally ready at his summons; and though his poetry, 
from the nature of his subjects, is in general rather ethic and didactic, than 
narrative ; yet no sooner does he adopt the latter style of composition, than 
his figures and his landscapes are presented to the mind with the same 
vivacity as the flow of his reasoning, or the acute metaphysical discrimination 
of his characters." — Life of Dryden, p. 484, ed. 1808. Dryden had declared, 
in his dedication to Lord Clifford, rural recreations abroad, and books at 
home, to be the innocent pleasures of a man who is early wise. 

t When Virgil has his eye upon a landscape, Dryden is, indeed, generally 
unfaithful; but pictures, with figures in them, he could paint with a life- 
giving pencil. The second appearance of the -Spectre (in Theodore and 
Honoria,) at the banquet, is described with wonderful power, and with 
remarkable poetical effect:— 

The gallants to protect the lady's right, 

Their faulchions brandished at the grisly sprite ; 

High on his stirrups be provoked the fight. 

Then on the crowd he cast a furious look, 

And withered all their strength before he strook: — 

Back, on your lives ! let be, said he, my prey, 

And let my vengeance take the destined way ; 

Vain are your arms, and vainer your defence, 

Against the eternal doom of Providence : 

Mine is the ungrateful maid by heaven designed; 

Mercy she would not give, no mercy shall she find. — 

At this the former tale again he told 

With thundering tone, and dreadful to behold : 

Sunk were their hearts with horror of the crime, 

Nor needed to be warned a second time, 

But bore each other back ; some knew the face, 

And all had heard the much lamented case 

Of him who fell for love, and this the fatal place. 







TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 401 

benefited by illustration, and even absolutely require it. A 
correct text is the first object of an editor; then such notes as 
explain difficult and obscure passages; and lastly, which is 
much less important, notes pointing out authors to whom the 
poet has been indebted, and not in the fiddling way of phrase 
here and phrase there, (which is detestable as a general 
practice,) — but where he has had essential obligations, either 
as to matter or manner. If I can be of any use to you, do 
not fail to apply to me. One thing I may take the liberty 
to suggest; when you come to the Fables, might it not be 
advisable to print the whole of the Tales of Boccace in a 
smaller type in the original language*? If this should look 
too much like swelling a book, I should certainly make such-, 
extracts as would show where Dryden has most strikingly 
improved upon, or fallen below, his original. I think his 
translations from Boccace are the best, at least the most 
poetical of his poems. It is many years since I read Boccace, 

* Sir Walter printed the Tales of Boccacio, but not in the original. Dryden 
derived little from the Italian, except the outline. The famous passage 
in Theodore and Honoria, which ushers in the Apparition, is entirely his 
own. Theodore, wandering out in the morning, finds himself in the midst. 
of a wood of pines : 

While listening to the murmuring leaves he stood,. 

More than a mile immersed within the wood, 

At once the wind was laid ; the whispering sound 

W T as dumb; a rising earthquake rocked the ground ;- 

With deeper brown the grove was overspread, 

A sudden horror seized bis giddy head, 

And his ears tinkled, and his colour fled. 

Nature was in alarm ! some danger nigh 

Seemed threaten'd, though unseen to mortal eye. 

Unused to fear, he summoned all his soul, 

And stood collected in himself, and whole: 

Not long ; for soon a whirlwind rose around, 

And from afar he heard a screaming sound : 

As of a dame distressed. 

Nothing can exceed the vividness of the painting throughout the poem. 
The vision of the lady; the "two mastiffs, gaunt and grim;" the knight, 
with flames in his eyes, thundering on upon a coal-black steed : Theodore's 
mingled terror and defiance at the fierce stare of the Spectre, &c; all these 
incidents are portrayed with the fire and life of the most glowing imagination-. 

r3 ° 



402 



WORDSWORTH TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



but I remember that Sigismunda is not married by him to 
Guiscard, (the names are different in Boccace, in both tales, 
I believe, certainly in Theodore, &c.). I think Dry den has 
much injured the story of the marriage, and degraded Sigis- 
munda's character by it. He has, also, to the best of my 
remembrance, degraded her still more, by making her love 
absolute sensuality*. Dry den had no other notion of the 
passion. With all these defects, and they are very gross 
ones, it is a noble poem. Guiscard's answer, when first 
reproached by Tancred, is noble in Boccace: nothing but this; 
A mor pud molto put, die ne vol ne io possiamo. This Dryden 
has spoiled. He says first very well, " the faults of love by 
love are justified;" and then come four lines t of miserable 
rant, quite a la Maximin. 

Farewell, and believe me ever 

Your affectionate friend, 

William Wordsworth J. 

* " One gross fault he has engrafted upon the original ; I mean the coarse- 
ness of Sigismonda's character, whose love is that of temperament not of 
affection. This error, grounded upon Dry den's false view of the passion, 
and of the female character, and perhaps arising from the depravity of the 
age rather than of the poet, pervades and greatly injures the effect of the 
tale ; yet it is more than counterbalanced by preponderating beauties." — 
Scott. 

t Sir Walter has alluded to this passage of Boccacio in a note. The 
lines, so justly condemned by Wordsworth, are these: 

With unresisted might the monarch reigns, 

He levels mountains, and he raises plains; 

And not regarding difference of degree, 

Abased your daughter, and exalted me. 

\ Cowper, whose acquaintance with our poetry was so contracted, re- 
membered with delight the. Fables of Dryden, and recommended them to 
Mr. Unwin, for the amusement of his son. He partook of his friend Chur- 
chill's admiration for the great master of English versification. "■ Writers," 
he said, " who find it necessary to make such strenuous and painful exer- 
tions, are generally as phlegmatic as they are correct; but Pope was in this 
respect, exempted from the common lot of authors of that class. With the 
unwearied application of a Flemish painter, who draws a shrimp with the 
most minute exactness, he had all the genius of one of the first masters. 
Never, I believe, were such talents and such drudgery united. But I 
admire Dryden most, who has succeeded by mere dint of genius, and in 



SIR HUMPHRY DAVY TO MR. POOLE. 403 



LETTER CVII. 

Sir Humphry Davy to Mr. Poole, describing his situa- 
tion at Ravenna.— ~ Historical associations of the 
place. 

Coleridge not only expressed his belief that Davy might have 
been the first poet of our time, if he had not been the first chemist, 
but coupled him with Wordsworth, as the two great men of the 
age ; and when Southey went to Portugal, he intrusted to Davy 
the correction of Thalaba. His biographer says that, like Pope, he 
lisped in numbers, and that his best exercises were translations 
from classical into English verse. A poetical fane}- colours all his 
writings, and he seems to have wanted nothing but the poet's 
art to obtain the poet's reputation. The following lines, written 
at'Ravenna, during the closing days of his existence, will illustrate 
the letter. 

Oh ! could' st thou be with me, daughter of heaven, 
, Urania ! I have now no other love ; 

For time has withered all the beauteous flowers 
That once adorned my youthful coronet. 
With thee I still may live a little space, 
And hope for better intellectual light ; 
With thee I may e'en still, in vernal times, 
Look upon Nature with a poet's eye, 
Nursing those lofty thoughts that in the mind 
Spontaneous rise, blending their sacred powers 
With images from fountain and from flood : 
From chestnut-groves, amid the broken rocks, 
Where the blue Lina pours to meet the wave 
Of foaming Serchio ; or midst the odorous heath 
And cistus flowers, that clothe the stream- worn sides 
Of the green hills, whence in their purity 
The virgin streams arise of Mountain Tiber. — 

■5s- w -St -Sj- 

Or rest might find on that cloud-covered hill, 
Whose noble rocks are clothed with brightest green, 

spite of a laziness and carelessness almost peculiar to himself. His faults 
are those of a great man, and his beauties are such (at least sometimes) as 
Pope, with all his touching and retouching, could never equal." — To Mr, 
Unwin, Jan. 5, 1782. 



404 SIR HUMPHRY DAVY 

Where thousand flowers of unknown hues and names 

Scent the cool air, rarely by man inhaled, 

But which the wild bee knows, and ever haunts, 

And whence descends the balmy influence 

Of those high waters, tepid from the air 

Of ancient Apennines, whose sacred source 

Hygeia loves ; there my weary limbs 

I might repose beneath the grateful shade 

Of chesnuts, whose worn trunks proclaim the birth 

Of other centuries. 

Davy believed himself to be endowed with the faculty divine. 
" From a conversation I once had with Sir H. Davy at Althorp," 
says Dr. Dibdin, in his Reminiscences, " in consequence of a passage 
in Ovid's Metamorphoses, I felt quite persuaded that he considered 
himself to be a poet, as well as a philosopher." 



Ravenna, March 14, 1827. 
My dear Poole, 

I should have answered your letter immediately, had 

it been possible ; but I was at the time I received it, very ill, 

in the crisis of the complaint under which I have long 

suffered, and which turned out to be a determination of blood 

to the brain ; and at last producing the most alarming nervous 

symptoms, and threatening the loss of power and of life. Had 

I been in England, I should gladly have promoted the 

election of your friend at the Athenaeum ; your certificate of 

character would always be enough for me ; for, like . our 

angling, evangelical Isaac "Walton, I know you choose for 

your friends only good men. 

I am, thank God, better, but still very weak, and wholly 

unfit for any kind of business and study. I have, however, 

considerably recovered the use of all the limbs that were 

affected ; and as my amendment has been slow and gradual, 

I hope in time it may be complete ; but I am leading the life 

of an anchorite, obliged to abstain from flesh, wine, business, 

study, experiments, and all things that I love; but this 

discipline is salutary, and for the sake of being able to do 



TO MR. POOLE. 405 

something more for science, and I hope for humanity, I 
submit to it, believing that the great Source of Intellectual 
Being so wills it for good. 

I am here lodged in the Apostolical Palace, by the kind- 
ness of the Vice-Legate of Ravenna, a most amiable and 
enlightened prelate, who has done everything for me that he 
could have done for a brother. I have chosen this spot of 
the declining empire of Rome, as one of solitude and repose, 
as out of the way of travellers, and in a good climate ; and its 
monuments and recollections are not without interest. Here 
Dante composed his divine works*. Here Byron f wrote 
some of his best and moral (if such a name can be applied), 
poems; and here the Roman power that began among the 
mountains with Romulus, and migrated to the sea, founding 
Asia and Europe under Constantine, made its last stand, in 

* " Let us see Byron on the Genevan Lake, crossing those fickle waves 
in a tempest, and troubled with the ostentatious and irritating boast of Coppet, 
preferring the dangerous conflict of the winds and waters, to those flashes 0/ 
angry and dazzling passion. Let us see him in the woods of Ravenna, talk- 
ing to the ghost of Dante." — Sir Egerton Brydges' Autobiography, vol. ii. 
p. 237. 

f Seven years before, at Ravenna, Sir Humphry had met Lord Byron, 
who tells an amusing anecdote respecting him, in a letter to Mr. Murray, 
May 8, 1820. " Sir Humphry Davy was here last fortnight, and I was in 
his company in the house of a very pretty Italian lady of rank, who, by way 
of displaying her learning in presence of the great chemist, then describing 
his fourteenth ascension of Mount Vesuvius, asked if there was not a similar 
volcano in Ireland ? My only notion of an Irish volcano consisted of the 
Lake of Killarney, which I naturally conceived her to mean ; but, on second 
thought, I divined that she alluded to Iceland and to Hecla; and so it 
proved, though she sustained her volcanic topography for some time with all 
the pertinacity of the ' feminie.' She soon after turned to me, and asked 
me various questions about Sir Humphry T s philosophy, and I explained, as 
well as an oracle, his skill in gasen safety-lamps, and ungluingthe Pompeian 
MSS. ' But what do you call him V said she. • A great chemist,' quoth I. 
' What can he do?' repeated the lady. 'Almost any thing,' said I. 
• Oh, then, mio caro, do pray beg him to give me something to dye my eye- 
brows black. I have tried a thousand things, and the colours all come off; 
and besides, they don't grow; can't he invent something to make them 
grow.' All this with the greatest earnestness. I did not tell Sir Humphry 
of this last piece of philosophy, not knowing how he might take it. Davy was 
much taken with Ravenna, and the Primitive Italianis?n of the people, who 
are unused to foreigners; but he only staid a day." 



406 SIR HUMPHRY DAVY TO MR. POOLE. 

the marshes formed by the Eridanus, under Theodorick, 
whose tomb is amongst the wonders of the place. After a 
month's travel in the most severe weather I ever experienced, 
I arrived here on the 20th of February. The weather has 
since been fine. My brother and friend, who is likewise my 
physician, accompanied me ; but he is so satisfied with my 
improvement, as to be able to leave me for Corfu ; but he is 
within a week's call. I have no society here, except that of 
the amiable Vice-Legate, who is the Governor of the Pro- 
vince ; but this is enough for me, for as yet I can bear but 
little conversation. I ride in the pine forest, which is the 
most magnificent in Europe, and which I wish you could see. 
You know the trees by Claude Loraine's landscapes ; imagine 
a circle of twenty miles of these great fan-shaped pines, green 
sunny lawns, and little knolls of underwood, with large juni- 
pers of the Adriatic in front, and the Apennines still covered 
with snow behind. The pine-wood partly covers the spot 
where the Roman fleet once rode; — such is the change of time! 
It is my intention to stay here till the beginning of 
April, and then go to the Alps, for I must avoid the extremes 
of heat and cold. God bless you, my dear Poole, I am 

always your old and sincere friend, 

H. Davy*. 

* It would be difficult to find a more beautiful picture than Davy's descrip- 
tion of a scene in the Apennines above Perugia. It occurs in an unfinished 
dialogue. " Notwithstanding the magnificence of the Alpine country, and 
the beauty of the upper part of Italy, yet the scenery now before us has 
peculiar charms, depending not merely on the variety and grandeur of the 
objects which it displays, but likewise on its historical relations. The hills 
are all celebrated in the early history of Italy, and many of them are crowned 
with Etruscan towers. The Lake of Thrasimene spreads its broad and calm 
mirror beneath a range of hills covered with oak and chestnut ; and the 
eminence where Hannibal marshalled that army which had nearly deprived 
Rome of empire, is now of a beautiful green from the rising corn. Hence 
the Tiber runs, a clear and bright blue mountain-stream, meriting the 
epithet of Cerulean bestowed on it by Virgil; and there the Chiusan Marsh 
sends its tributary streams from the same level to the remains of Etruria and 
Latium. In the extreme distance are the woods of the Sabine country, 
bright with the purple foliage of the Judas-tree, extending along the sides of 
blue hills, which again, are capped by snowy mountains." 



407 



LETTER CVIII. 

The Duke of Wellington, {then the Hon. A. Wellesley) 
to Lieutenant -Colonel Close. — Defeat of an Indian 
Freebooter, 

Colonel Wellesley landed in India, in the February of 1797, 
and was soon engaged in the war with the famous Tippoo Sultaun, 
and at the assault and capture of Seringapatam, May 4, 1799, he 
commanded the reserve in the trenches. In 1800, the tranquillity 
of Mysore was disturbed by the reappearance, at the head of a 
numerous army, of a Marhatta freebooter, named Dhoondiah 
Waugh. Colonel Wellesley, who knew him, though a despicable, 
to be a very formidable enemy, proceeded against him in person, 
" with detachments of the army of Mysore." Dhoondiah had 
previously eluded the pursuit of two officers who had endeavoured 
to intercept him in his flight into the Marhatta country. " Dhoon- 
diah," says Colonel Gurwood, "had formerly committed various 
depredations on the territories of Tippoo Sultaun, who, having 
secured his person, compelled him to conform to the Mahometan 
faith, and afterwards employed him in military service ;" subse- 
quently however, he confined him in irons in Seringapatam. 
Having been released after the capture of that fortress by the 
English troops, he fled to Bednore, and "laid that rich country 
under severe contributions, which he exacted with unrelenting 
cruelty, perpetrating throughout the province the most atrocious 
acts of rapine and murder *." 



Camp, right of the Malpoorba, opposite Manowly, 
31st July, 1800. 
Dear Colonel, 

I have the pleasure to inform you, that I have struck 
a blow against Dhoondiah, which he will feel severely. 
After the fall of Dummul and Gudduck, I heard that Dhoon- 
diah was encamped near Soondootty, west of the Pursghur 
hill, and that his object was to cover the passage of his 
baggage over the Malpoorba at Manowly. I then determined 

* Gurwood's Despatches of the Duke of Wellington, vol. i. p. 40. 



408 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



upon a plan to attack both him and his baggage at the same 
time, in co-operation with Bowser, whose detachment, how- 
ever, did not arrive at Dummul till the 28th, and was two 
marches in my rear; but I thought it most important that I 
should approach Dhoondiah's army at all events, and take 
advantage of any movement which he might make. I accord- 
ingly moved on, and arrived on the 29th at Allagawaddy, 
which is fifteen miles from Soondootty, and twenty-six from 
this place. I intended to halt at Allagawaddy till the 31st, 
on which day I expected Colonel Bowser at Nurgoond; but 
Dhoondiah broke up from Soondootty, as soon as he heard of 
my arrival at Allagawaddy, sent part of his army to Dood- 
waur, part towards Jellahaul, and part with the baggage, to 
this place. I then marched on the morning of the 30th, to 
Hoogurgoor, which is east of the Pursghur-hill, where I 
learned that Dhoondiah was here with his baggage. I deter- 
mined to move on and attack him. I surprised his camp at 
three o'clock in the evening with the cavalry ; and we drove 
into the river, or destroyed every body that was in it, took an 
elephant, several camels, bullocks, horses, and innumerable 
families, women, and children. The guns were gone over, 
and we made an attempt to dismount them, by a fire from this 
side ; but it was getting dark, and my infantry was fatigued 
by the length of the march ; we lost a man or two ; and I 
saw plainly that we should not succeed ; I therefore with- 
drew my guns to my camp. I do not know whether Dhoon- 
diah was with this part of the army, but I rather believe not. 
Bubber Jung was in the camp, put on his armour to fight, 
mounted his horse, and rode him into the river, where he was 
drowned. Numbers met with the same fate. Onetandah*of 
brinjarriest, in this neighbourhood, has sent to me for cowle J, 

* A body, horde, &c. 

t Grain-dealers, who supply armies with rice and grain, loaded in bags on 
bullocks. 

J Mercy, quarter, protection, solemn pledge or promise. — Colonel Gur- 
tvocd. 



TO LIEUT. -COLONEL CLOSE. 409 

and I have got the family of a head brinjarry among those 
of several others. I have detained them; but have sent 
cowle to the brinjarry. I hear that everybody is deserting 
Dhoondiah ; and I believe it, as my Marhattas are going out 
this night to attack one of his parties gone towards Darwar. 
They were before very partial to my camp. I have a plan 
for crossing some Europeans over the river to destroy the 
guns, which I am afraid I cannot bring off; and then I think 
I shall have done this business completely. I am not quite 
certain of success, however, as the river is broad and rapid. 

Believe me, &c.' 

Arthur Wellesley. 



LETTER CIX. 



The Same to Lady Sarah Napier, informing her of a 
wound received by her Son, 

No circumstance in the despatches of the Duke of Wellington, 
awakens a livelier feeling of pleasure and surprise in the mind of 
the reader, than the simple, natural, yet touching and consolatory 
manner, in which that illustrious commander communicates the 
death or the sufferings of his officers, to their relatives and friends. 
Avoiding all the common topics of condolence, he places before the 
bereaved mother or father, every consideration likely to reconcile 
them to the loss they have experienced in the cause of their 
country. To these letters, the Epitaph of Collins might have been 
affixed for a motto. 



Gallegos, 29th January, 1812. 
My dear Madam, 

I am sorry to tell you that your son George was again 
wounded in the right arm so badly last night, in the storm of 
Ciudad Rodrigo, that it was necessary to amputate it above 



410 DUKE OF WELLINGTON TO LADY NAPIER. 

the elbow. He, however, bore the operation remarkably 
well, and I have seen him this morning free from pain and 
fever, and enjoying highly his success before he had received 
his wound. When he did receive it, he only desired that I 
might be informed that he had led his men to the top of the 
breach before he had fallen. 

Having such sons, I am aware that you expect to hear of 
those misfortunes, which I have more than once had to com- 
municate to you; and notwithstanding your affection for them, 
you have so just a notion of the value of the distinction they 
are daily acquiring for themselves, by their gallantry and 
good conduct, that their misfortunes do not make so great an 
impression upon you. Under such circumstances, I perform 
the task which I have taken upon myself with less reluct- 
ance, hoping at the same time that this will be the last 
occasion on which I shall have to address you upon such 
a subject; and that your brave sons will be spared to you. 
Although the last was the most serious, it was not the only 
wound which George received during the siege of Ciudad 
Rodrigo, he was hit by the splinter of a shell in the shoulder, 
on the 16th. 

Believe me, &c. 



LETTER CX. 



The Same to Lord Somers — upon a similar 
occasion. 

Yilla-Toro, 11th October, 1812. 
My Lord, 

As I have before had the honour of writing to you 
respecting your son, I cannot allow my despatch to go to 
England with the melancholy account of the loss which you 
have sustained, without addressing a few lines to you. 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON TO LORD SOMERS. 411 

Your son fell as he had lived, in the zealons . and gallant 
discharge of his duty. He had already distinguished himself 
in the course of the operations of the attack of the Castle of 
Burgos to such a degree, as to induce me to recommend him 
for promotion; and I assure your Lordship, that if Provi- 
dence had spared him to you, he possessed acquirements and 
was endowed with qualities to become one of the greatest 
ornaments of his profession, and to continue an honour to his 
family, and an advantage to his country. I have no hope 
that what I have above stated to your Lordship, will at all 
tend to alleviate your affliction on this melancholy occasion; 
but I could not deny myself the satisfaction of assuring you, 
that I was highly sensible of the merits of your son, and that 
I most sincerely lament his loss. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



LETTER CXI. 



The Same to Samuel Whltbread, Esq., acknowledging 
the retractation of Calumnies. 

Among the political opponents who had depreciated, with all 
the virulence of party, the early campaigns of Wellington, Mr. 
Whitbread had distinguished himself by the vehemence of his 
hostility. But he was a generous, though a prejudiced antagonist, 
and having been convinced of the injustice of his censures, not 
only acknowledged his error in Parliament, but addressed a letter 
to Lord Wellington, in the same pacific spirit. 



Elvas, 23rd of May, .1811. 
My dear Sir, 

I am most highly gratified by your letter of the 29th 
April, which I received last night; and I beg leave to return 
my thanks for the mode in which you have taken the trouble 



412 DUKE OF WELLINGTON TO WHITBREAD. 

of informing me of the favourable change of your opinion 
respecting affairs in this country. I acknowledge that I was 
much concerned to find that persons, for whom I entertained 
the highest respect, and whose opinions were likely to have 
great weight in England, and throughout Europe, had 
delivered erroneous opinions, as I thought, respecting affairs 
in this country; and I prized their judgments so highly, at 
the same time that I was certain of the error of the opinion 
which they had delivered, that I was induced to attribute 
their conduct to the excess of the spirit of party. I assure 
you that, highly as I am gratified and flattered by the appro- 
bation of and yourself and others, that which gives 

me most pleasure in the account which I received last night 
from England, is to be convinced that such men could not be 
unjust towards an officer in the service of the country abroad; 
and that the opinions which they had delivered, however 
unfavourable to him, were the real dictates of their judgments, 
upon a fair view of all the circumstances which had come to 
their knowledge. To the gratification arising from this con- 
viction, to one who appears destined to pass his life in the 
harness, you have added that which I have received from 
your obliging letter, and I assure you that I am very sen- 
sible of the kindness towards me which induced you to write 
to me. 



LETTER CXII. 



The Same to a Correspondent, dissuading him from 
attempting to describe the Battle of Waterloo, and 
containing an outline of the principal circumstances 
in it. 

Paris, August 17, 1815. 
My dear Sir, 

I have received your letter of the 11th, and regret 
much I have not been able to prevail upon you to relinquish 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON TO A CORRESPONDENT. 413 

your plan. You may depend upon it you will never make 
it a satisfactory work. I will get you a list of the French 
army, generals, &c. 

Just to show you how little reliance can he placed, even 
on what are supposed the best accounts of a battle, I mention 
that there are some circumstances mentioned in General 

's account, which did not occur as he relates them. 

He was not on the field during the whole battle, particularly 
not during the latter part of it. The battle began, I believe, 
at eleven o'clock. It is impossible to say when each im- 
portant occurrence took place, nor in what order. We were 
attacked first with infantry only, then with cavalry only; 
lastly and principally, with cavalry and infantry mixed. No 
houses were possessed by the enemy in Mont St. Jean, ex- 
cepting the farm in front of the left of our centre, on the 
road to Gemappe, can be called one. This they got, I think, 
at about two o'clock, and got it from a circumstance which 
is to be attributed to the neglect of the officer commanding 
on the spot. 

The French cavalry were on the plateau in the centre, 
between the two high roads, for nearly three quarters of an 
hour, riding about among our squares of infantry, all firing 
having ceased on both sides. I moved our squares forward 
to the guns; and our cavalry, which nad been detached by 
Lord Uxbridge to the flanks, was brought back to the centre. 
The French cavalry were then driven off. After that circum- 
stance, repeated attacks were made along the whole front of 
the centre of the position, by cavalry and infantry, till seven 
at night; how many I cannot tell. When the enemy attacked 
Sir Thomas Picton, I was there, and they got as far as the 
hedge on the cross-road, behind which the cavalry had been 
formed. The latter had run away, and our troops were on 
our side of the hedge. The French were driven off with 
immense loss. This was the first principal attack. At about 
two o'clock in the afternoon, as I have above said, they got 



414 DUKE OF WELLINGTON 

possession of the farm-house on the high road, which defended 
this part of the position; and they then took possession of a 
small mound on the left of the high-road going from Bruxelles, 
immediately opposite the gate of the farm; and they were 
never removed from thence till I commenced the attack in 
the evening; but they never advanced further on that side. 

These are answers to all your queries; but, remember, I 
recommend to you to leave the battle of Waterloo as it is. 

Wellington. 



LETTER CXIII. 



The Same to Lord Beresford, upon the same subject. -^ 
Striking Picture of the Battle. 

Gonesse, July 2, 1815. 
My dear Beresford, 

I have received your letter of the 9th of June. You 
should recommend for the Spanish medal for Albuera, accord- 
ing to the rules laid down by the king of Spain for the grant 
of it. I should think it should be given only to those who 
were there and actually engaged. I am, as soon as I shall 
have a little time, going to recommend officers for the Order 
of San Fernando, and will apply to you for a Portuguese list. 
You will have heard of our battle of the 18th. Never did 
I see such a pounding match: both were what the boxers 
call gluttons. Napoleon did not manoeuvre at all; he just 
moved forward in the old style, in columns, and was driven 
off in the old style; the only difference was, that he mixe*" 1 
cavalry with his infantry, and supported both with an 
enormous quantity of artillery. I had the infantry for some 
time in squares, and we had the French cavalry walking 
about us as if they had been our own. I never saw the 
British infantry behave so well. 



TO LORD BERESFORD. 415 

Boney is now off, I believe, to Rochefort, to go to Ame- 
rica; the army, about forty thousand or fifty thousand, are 
in Paris : Blucher on the left of the Seine, and I, with my right 
in front of St. Denis, and the left upon the Bois de Bondy. 
They have fortified St. Denis and Montmartre, very strongly. 
The canal de l'Ourcq, is filled with water, and they have a 
parapet and batteries on the bank ; so that I do not believe 
we can attack this line; however I will see. 

Believe me, &c. 

Wellington. 



LETTER CXIY. 



S. T. Coleridge to Mr. Jlsop. — Affecting account of 
his Hopes, Prospects, and Literary Projects. 

No comment can introduce this letter of the departed philoso- 
pher and poet, so appropriately or pathetically as his own. " Never 
pursue literature as a trade. With the exception of one extra- 
ordinary man, I have never known an individual, least of all, 
individual of genius, healthy or happy without a profession, i. e. 
some regular employment, which does not depend on the will of 
the moment, and which can be carried on so far mechanically, that 
an average quantum only of health, spirits, and intellectual exertion 
are requisite to its faithful discharge. Three hours of leisure, 
unannoyed by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with 
delight as a change and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature 
a larger product, of what is truly genial, than weeks of compulsion. 
Money and immediate reputation form only an arbitrary and 
accidental end of literary labour. The hope of increasing them by 
any given exertion will often prove a stimulant to industry ; but 
the necessity of acquiring them will in all works of genius convert 
the stimulant into a narcotic. Motives by excess reverse their 
very nature; and instead of exciting, stun and stupify the mind*." 
It was the want of this tranquillizing provision that wrung from 
him, at another time, the mournful exclamation, — "Oh! there 
are some natures which under the most cheerless, all-threatening, 

* Biographia Literaria, vol. i. p. 223. 



416 S. T. COLERIDGE 

nothing-promising circumstances, can draw hope from the Invi- 
sible ; as the tropical trees, that in the sandy desolation pro- 
duce their own lidded vessels full of water from air and dew. 
Alas! to my root not a drop trickles down, but from the water- 
pot of immediate friends." This complaint must have been 
uttered in one of his darkest hours. However overcast his worldly 
prospects might have been, Coleridge was never forsaken by the 
Christian's hope ; he had in himself a well of water, whose springs 
were from above. Unfortunate, indeed, he may have been ; un- 
happy he could not be ; while Imagination conducted him through 
the glories of her poetical Cloud-Land, and coloured the mists of 
sleep with visions that shone upon the dreams of Spenser. He has 
himself described the situation and feelings of a good man, sur- 
rendering his mind to the contemplation of heavenly truth, in 
"some of his last and most affecting verses. 

For shame, dear friend ! renounce this canting strain ! 

"What would' st thou that a good great man obtain ? 

Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain ? 

Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? 

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends ! 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 

The good great man ? Three treasures, Love, and Light, 

And Calm Thoughts, regular as infant's breath ; — ■ 

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night r 

Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death. 



My dear young Friend, 

The only impression left by you on my mind is, an 
increased desire to see you again, and at shorter intervals. 
Were you my son by nature, I could not hold you dearer, or 
more earnestly desire to retain you the adopted of whatever 
within me will remain, when the dross and alloy of infirmity 
shall have been purged away. I feel the most entire confi- 
dence that no prosperous change of my outward circumstances 
would add to your faith in the sincerity of this assurance; 
still, however, the average of men being what it is, and it 
being neither possible nor desirable to be fully conscious in 



TO MR. ALSOP. 417 

our understanding of the habits of thinking and judging in 
the world around us, and yet to be wholly impassive and 
unaffected by them in our feelings, it would endear and give 
a new value to an honourable competence, that I should 
be able to evince the true nature and degree of my esteem 
and attachment beyond the suspicion even of the sordid, and 
separate from all that is accidental or adventitious. But yet 
the friendship I feel for you, is so genial a warmth, and 
blends so undistinguishably with my affections, is so perfectly 
one of the family in the household of love, that I would not 
be otherwise than obliged to you; and God is my witness, 
that my wish for an easier and less embarrassed lot is chiefly 
(I think I might have said exclusively) grounded on the deep 
conviction, that exposed to a less bleak aspect, I should 
bring forth flowers and fruits both more abundant and more 
worthy of the unexampled kindness of your faith in me. 
Interpreting the " vine" and the " ivy garland," as figures of 
poetry signifying competence, and the removal of the petty 
needs of the body, that plug up the pipes of the playing 
fountain, (and such it is too well known was the intent and 
meaning of the hardly used poet,) and oh! how often, when 
my heart has begun to swell, from the genial warmth of 
thought, as our northern lakes from the (so called) bottom 
winds, when all above and around are stillness and sunshine, 
how often have I repeated in my own name the sweet stanza 
of Edmund Spenser : — 

" Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage, 
O ! if my temples were bedewed with wine, 
And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine, 
How I could rear the muse on stately stage, 
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine 
With queint Bellona in her equipage." 

Read what follows, as you would a note at the bottom of a 
page. 

s 



418 S. T. COLERIDGE 

" But, ah! Mecaenas is y wrapt in clay, and great Augustus 
long ago is dead." 

But, though natural, the complaint is not equally philo- 
sophical, were it only on this account, — that I know of no 
age in which the same has not been advanced, and with the 
same grounds. Nay, I retract; there never was a time in 
which the complaint would be so little wise, though, perhaps, 
none in which the fact is more prominent. Neither philoso- 
phy, nor poetry ever did, nor as long as they are terms of 
comparative excellence and contradistinction, ever can be 
popular, nor honoured with the praise and favour of contem- 
poraries. But, on the other hand, there never was a time in 
which either books, that were held for excellent as poetic or 
philosophic, had so extensive and rapid a sale, or men, 
reputed poets and philosophers of a high rank, were so much 
looked up to in society, or so munificently, almost profusely, 
rewarded*. 

But enough of these generals. It was my purpose to 
open myself out to you in detail. My health, I have reason 
to believe, is so intimately connected with the state of my 
spirits, and these again so dependent on my thoughts, pro- 
spective and retrospective, that I should not doubt the being 
favoured with a sufficiency for my noblest undertaking, had 
I the ease of heart requisite for the necessary abstraction of 
the thoughts, and such a reprieve from the goading of the 
immediate exigencies, as might make tranquillity possible. 
But, alas ! I know by experience, (and the knowledge is not 
the less, because the regret is not unmixed with self-blame, 
and the consciousness of want of exertion and fortitude,) that 
my health will continue to decline, as long as the pain from 

* But ours is, notwithstanding its manifold excellences, a degenerate age ; 
and recreant knights are among us far outnumbering the true. A false Glo- 
xiana in these days". imposes worthless services, which they, who perform 
them, in their blindness, know not to be such ; and which are recompensed 
by rewards as worthless, yet eagerly grasped at, as if they were the immortal 
guerdon of virtue.— 27ie Friend, vol. iii. pp. 55, 56. 



TO MR. ALSOP. 419 

reviewing the barrenness of the past, is great in an inverse 
proportion to any rational anticipations of the future. As 
I now am, however, from five to six hours devoted to actual 
writing and composition in the day, is the utmost that my 
strength, not to speak of my nervous system, will permit ; 
and the invasions on this portion of my time from appli- 
cations, often of the most senseless kind, are such and so 
many, as to be almost as ludicrous even to myself as they 
are vexatious. In less than a week, £ have not seldom 
received half-a-dozen packets or parcels of works, printed or 
manuscript, urgently requesting my candid judgment, or my 
correcting hand. Add to these, letters from lords and ladies, 
urging me to write reviews or puffs of heaven-born geniuses, 
whose whole merit consists in being ploughmen or shoe- 
makers. Ditto from actors ; entreaties for money, or recom- 
mendations to publishers, from ushers out of place, &c. &c. ; 
and to me, who have neither interest, influence, nor money, 
and what is still more apropos, can neither bring myself to 
tell smooth falsehoods nor harsh truths, and, in the struggle, 
too often do both in the anxiety to do neither. I have 
already the written materials and contents, requiring only to 
be put together, from the loose papers, and common-place or 
memorandum-books, and needing no other change, whether 
of omission, addition, or correction, than the mere act of 
arranging, and the opportunity of seeing the whole collec- 
tively bring with them of course, I. Characteristics of 

Shakspeare's dramatic works*, with a critical review of each 

* The second volume of Mr. Coleridge's Literary Remains, contains an 
outline of his Lectures upon Shakspeare, with notes upon his plays, as well 
as upon those of Ben Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher. The remarks 
are rapid and brief, and hence the opinions are occasionally obscure and 
incomplete; but in many instances the criticism is acute, original, and 
eloquent. Many beautiful observations on the genius of Shakspeare and 
the old dramatists, are scattered through the Table Talk. Take the follow- 
ing: — " In Shakspeare one sentence begets the next naturally ; the meaning- 
is all in-woven. He goes on kindling like a meteor through the dark 
atmosphere ; yet, when the creation in its outline is once perfect, then he 

s2 



420 S. T. COLERIDGE 

play; together with a relative and comparative critique on 
the kind and degree of the merits and demerits of the 
dramatic works of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
and Massinger. The History of the English Drama; the 
accidental advantages it afforded to Shakspeare, without in 
the least detracting from the perfect originality or proper 
creation of the Shakspearian Drama; the contradistinction of 
the latter from the Greek Drama, and its still remaining 
uniqueness, with the causes of this, from the combined influ- 
ences of Shakspeare himself, as man, poet, philosopher, and 
finally, by conjunction of all these, dramatic poet; and of the 
age, events, manners, and state of the English language. This 
work, with every art of compression, amounts to three 
volumes of about five hundred pages each. II. Philosophical 
Analysis of the Genius and "Works of Dante, Spenser, Milton, 
Cervantes, and Calderon, with similar, but more compressed 
Criticisms on Chaucer, Ariosto, Donne, Rabelais, and others, 
during the predominance of the Romantic Poetry. In one 
large volume. These two works will, I flatter myself, form 
a complete code of the principles of judgment and feeling 
applied to Works of Taste; and not of Poetry only, but of 
Poesy in all its forms, Painting, Statuary, Music, &c. &c. 

seems to rest from his labour, and to smile upon his work. You see many 
scenes and parts of scenes which are simply Shakspeare 's, disporting himself 
in joyous triumph and vigorous fun, after a great achievement of his highest 
genius." p. 213. And again, contrasting Shakspeare with Massinger. 
" Regan and Goneril are the only pictures of the unnatural in Shakspeare, 
— the pure unnatural ; and you will observe, that Shakspeare has left their 
hideousness unsoftened or diversified by a single line of goodness or common 
human frailty. Whereas in Edmund, for whom passion, the sense of shame 
.as a bastard, offers some plausible excuses, Shakspeare has placed 'many 
redeeming traits. Edmund is what, under certain circumstances, any man 
■of powerful intellect might be, if some other qualities and feelings were cut 
off. Hamlet is inclusively an Edmund, but different from him as a whole, 
on account of the controlling agency of other principles which Edmund had 
not. It is worth while to remark the use which Shakspeare always makes 
of his bold villains, as vehicles for expressing opinions and conjectures of a 
nature too hazardous for a wise man to put forth directly as his own, or from 
any sustained character." p. 210. The eyes of the critic seem always 
frightened by the contemplation of our greatest Poet. 



TO MR. ALSOP 421 

III. The History of Philosophy considered as a Tendency of 
the Human Mind, to exhibit the Powers of the Human Reason, 
to discover by its own Strength, the Origin and Laws of Man 
and the World, from Pythagoras to Locke and Condillac. 
Two volumes. IV. Letters on the Old and New Testament, 
and on the Doctrine and Principles held in common by the 
Fathers and Founders of the Reformation, addressed to a 
candidate for Holy Orders, including advice on the Plan and 
Subjects of Preaching, proper to a Minister of the Established 
Church". 

To the completion of these four works, I have literally 
nothing more to do than to transcribe, but, as I before hinted, 
from so many scraps and sibylline leaves, including margins 
of books and blank pages, that, unfortunately, I must be my 
own scribe, and not done by myself, they will be all but lost; 
or perhaps (as has been too often the case already,) furnish 
feathers for the caps of others; some for this purpose, and 
some to plume the arrows of detraction, to be let fly against 
the luckless bird from whom they had been plucked or moulted. 

In addition to these — of my Great Work, to the prepa- 
ration of which more than twenty years of my life have been 
devoted, and on which my hopes of extensive and permanent 
utility, of fame, in the noblest sense of the word, mainly rest 
— that, by which I might, 

"As now by thee; by all the good be known, 

When this weak frame lies moulder' d in the grave, 
Which self-surviving I might call my own, 
Which folly cannot mar, nor hate deprave — 
The incense of those powers, which, risen in flame, 
Might make me dear to Him from whom they came." 

Of this work, to which all my other writings, (unless 
I except my Po'ems, and these I can exclude in part only,) 

* The fullest exposition of Coleridge's religious opinions will be found in 
the third volume of his Literary Remains, which is devoted to the works of 
Donne, Taylor, and some of our most eminent writers upon Theology. His ' 
Aids to Reflection are too well known to need any reference. 



422 



S. T. COLERIDGE 



are introductory and preparative; and the result of which (if 
the premises be, as I, with the most tranquil assurance, am 
convinced they are — insubvertible, the deductions legitimate, 
and the conclusions commensurate, and only commensurate, 
with both), must finally be a revolution of all that has been 
called philosophy or metaphysics in England and France, since 
the era of the commencing predominance of the mechanical 
system at the restoration of our second Charles, and with this 
the present fashionable views, not only of religion, morals, and 
politics, but even of the modern physics and physiology. You 
will not blame the earnestness of my expressions, nor the 
high importance which I attach to this work : for how, with 
less noble objects, and less faith in their attainment, could I 
stand acquitted of folly, and abuse of time, talents, and learn- 
ing, in a labour of three -fourths of my intellectual life ? Of 
this work, something more than a volume has been dictated 
by me, so as to exist fit for the press, to my friend and 
enlightened pupil, Mr. Green ; and more than as much again 
would have been evolved and delivered to paper, but that, for 
the last six or eight months, I have been compelled to break 
off our weekly meeting, from the necessity of writing (alas ! 
alas! of attempting to write), for purposes, and on the subjects 
of the passing day. Of my poetic works, I would fain finish 
the Christabel. Alas! for the proud time when I planned, 
when I had present to my mind, the materials, as well as 
the scheme of the Hymns entitled Spirit, Sun, Earth, Air, 
Water, Fire, and Man; and the Epic Poem on what still 
appears to me the one only fit subject remaining for an epic 
poem — Jerusalem besieged and destroyed by Titus*. 



* The destruction of Jerusalem is the only subject now remaining for an 
epic poem ; a subject which, like Milton's Fall of Man, should interest all 
Christendom, as the Homeric War of Troy interested all Greece. There 
would be difficulties, as there are in all subjects ; and they must be mitigated 
and thrown into the shade, as Milton has done with the numerous difficulties 
in the Paradise Lost. But there would be a greater assemblage of grandeur 
than can now be found in any other theme. As for the old mythology, 



TO MR. ALSOP. 423 

And here comes my dear friend; here comes my sorrow 
and my weakness, my grievance and my confession. Anxious 
to perform the duties of the day arising out of the wants of 
the day, these wants, too, presenting themselves in the most 
painful of all forms, — that of a debt owing to those who will 
not exact it, and yet need its payment; and the delay, the long 
(not live-long, but death-long) behind-hand of my accounts to 
friends, whose utmost care and frugality on the one side, and 
industry on the other, the wife's management and the husband's 
assiduity, are put in requisition, to make both ends meet, I am 
at once forbidden to attempt, and too perplexed earnestly to 
pursue, the accomplishment of the works worthy of me, those I 
mean above enumerated, — even if, savagely as I have been 
injured by one of the two influensive Reviews, and with 
more effective enmity undermined by the utter silence, or 
occasional detractive compliments of the other, I had the 
probable chance of disposing of them to the booksellers, 
so as even to liquidate my mere boarding accounts during 
the time expended in the transcription, arrangement, and 
proof correction. And yet, on the other hand, my heart 
and mind are for ever recurring to them. Yes, my conscience 
forces me to plead guilty. I have only by fits and starts 
even prayed. I have not prevailed on myself to pray to God 
in sincerity and entireness for the fortitude that might enable 
me to resign myself to the abandonment of all my life's best 
hopes, to say boldly to myself: — I. "Gifted with powers 
confessedly above mediocrity, aided by an education, of 
which, no less from almost unexampled hardships and 
sufferings than from manifold and peculiar advantages, I have 

incredulus odi ; and yet there must be a mythology, or a gwasi-mythology, 
for an epic poem. Here there would be the completion of the prophecies — 
the termination of the first revealed national religion under the violent assault 
of paganism, itself the immediate forerunner and condition of the spread of a 
revealed mundane religion ; and then you would have the character of the 
Roman and the Jew, and the awfulness, the completeness, the justice. I 
schemed it at twenty-five; but, alas! venturum expectat. — Table Talk, second 
edition, p. 162-3. 



424 S. T. COLERIDGE 

never yet found a parallel, I have devoted myself to a life of 
unintermitted reading, thinking, meditating, and observing. 
I have not only sacrificed all worldly prospects of wealth and 
advancement, hut have in my inmost soul stood aloof from 
temporary reputation*. In consequence of these toils, and this 
self-dedication, I possess a calm and clear consciousness, that 
in many and most important departments of truth and beauty, 
I have outstrode my contemporaries — those at least of highest 
name ; that the number of my printed works bears witness 
that I have not been idle; and the seldom acknowledged, but 
strictly proveable, effects of my labours appropriated to the 
immediate welfare of my age, in the Morning Post, before and 
during the peace of Amiens, in the Courier afterwards, and 
in the series and various subjects of my lectures at Bristol and 
at the Royal and Surrey Institutions, in Fetter-lane, at 
Willis's Rooms, and at the Crown and Anchor, (add to which, 
the unlimited freedom of my communications in colloquial 
life,) may surely be allowed as evidence that I have not been 
useless in my generation. But, from circumstances, the main 
portion of my harvest is still on the ground, ripe indeed, and 
only waiting, a few for the sickle, but a large part only for 
the sheaving, and carting, and housing, but from all this I 
must turn away, must let them rot as they lie, and be as 
though they never had been, for I must go and gather black- 
berries and earth-nuts, or pick mushrooms and gild oak-apples 
for the palates and fancies of chance customers. I must 
abrogate the name of philosopher and poet, and scribble as 
fast as I can, and with as little thought as I can, for Blackwood's 
Magazine ; or, as I have been employed for the last days, in 
writing MS. sermons for lazy clergymen, who stipulate " that 

* I expect neither profit nor fame by my writings ; and I consider myself 
as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own 
" exceeding great reward ;" it has soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied 
and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude ; and it has given me 
the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets 
and surrounds me.— Preface to the first and second Editions of his Poems. 



TO MR. ALSOP. . 425 

the composition must not be more than respectable, for fear they 
should be desired to publish the visitation sermon !" This I 
have not yet had courage to do. My soul sickens, and 
my heart sinks; and thus, oscillating between both, I do 
neither, neither as it ought to be done, or to any profitable 
end. If I were to detail only the various, I might say capri- 
cious, interruptions, that have prevented the finishing of this 
very scrawl, begun on the very day I received your last 
kind letter, you would need no other illustrations. Now I 
see but one possible plan of rescuing my permanent utility. 
It is briefly this, and plainly. For what we struggle with 
inwardly, we find at least easiest to bolt out, namely, — that 
of engaging from the circle of those who think respectfully 
and hope highly of my powers and attainments, a yearly sum, 
for three or four years, adequate to my actual support, with 
such comforts and decencies of appearance as my health and 
habits have made necessaries, so that my mind may be 
unanxious as far as the present time is concerned ; that thus I 
should stand both enabled and pledged to begin with some 
one work of these above mentioned, and for two-thirds of 
my whole time to devote myself to this exclusively till 
finished, to take the chance of its success by the best mode of 
publication that would involve me in no risk ; then to pro- 
ceed with the next, and so on till the works above mentioned 
as already in full material existence, should be reduced into 
formal and actual being; while in the remaining third of my 
time I might go on maturing and completing my great work v . 
(for if but easy in mind, I have no doubt either of the re- 
awakening power or of the kindling inclination,) and my 
Christabel, and what else the happier'"" hour might inspire — 



* There is a species of applause scarcely less genial to a poet, than the 
vernal warmth to the feathered songsters during their nest-breeding or incu- 
bation ; a sympathy, an expressed hope, that is the open air in which the 
poet breathes, and without which the sense of power sinks back on itself, like 
a sigh heaved up from the tightened chest of a " sick man."— Table Talk, 

S 3 



426 S. T. COLERIDGE 

and without inspiration a barrel-organ may be played right 
deftly; but 

All otherwise the state of poet stands ; 

For lordly want is such a tyrant fell, 

That where he rules all power he doth expel. 

The vaunted verse a vacant head demands, 

Ne wont with crabbed Care the muses dwell : 

Unwisely weaves who takes two webs in hand. 

Now, Mr. Green has offered to contribute from 30/. to 40/. 
yearly, for three or four years ; my young friend and pupil, 
the son of one of my dearest old friends, 50/. ; and I think 
that from 10/. to 201. I could rely upon from another. The 
sum required would be about 200/., to be repaid, of course, 
should the disposal or sale, and as far as the disposal and sale 
of my writings produce the means. 

I have thus placed before you at large, wanderingly, as 
well as diffusely, the statement which I am inclined to send in 
a compressed form to a few of those of whose kind dispositions 
towards me I have received assurances, — and to their interest 
and influence I must leave it, — anxious, however, before I do 
this, to learn from you your very inmost feeling and judgment 
as to the previous questions. Am I entitled, have I earned a 
right to do this ? Can I do it without moral degradation ? 
and, lastly, can it be done without loss of character in the 
eyes of my acquaintance, and of my friends' acquaintance, 
who may have been informed of the circumstances ? That, if 
attempted at all, it will be attempted in such a way, and 
that such persons only Will be spoken to, as will not expose 
me to indelicate rebuffs, to be afterwards matters of gossip, I 

p. 252. The first part of Christabel was written in the year 1797, at Stowey, 
in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return from Germany, 
in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the latter date, my poetic 
powers have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. But 
as, in my very first conception of the tale, I had the whole present to my 
mind, with the wholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a vision, I trust 
I shall yet be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come.— Preface 
to the Edition of 1816. 



TO MR. ALSOP. 427 

know those to whom I shall intrust the statement too well 
to be much alarmed about. 

Pray, let me either see or hear from you as soon as 
possible ; for, indeed and indeed, it is no inconsiderable 
accession to the pleasure I anticipate from disembarrassment, 
that you would have to contemplate in a more gracious form, 
and in a more ebullient play of the inward fountain, the 
mind and manners of, 

My dear friend, 
Your obliged and very affectionate friend, 
S. T. Coleridge*. 



LETTER CXV. 



Walter Savage Landor to Dr. Parr. — Indignant 
Contempt of Criticism. 

A residence in "Warwickshire had brought Mr. Landor into 
personal communication with Parr, who admired his poetry, and 
appreciated the independence of his character. The Doctor appears 

* Let me add, in a note, the noble and Christian conclusion of Mr. 
Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, in which his earnest self-consecration to the 
cause of sacred Truth is affectionately commemorated. " This has been my 
Object, and this alone can be my Defence; and O ! that with this my 
personal, as well as my Literary Life might conclude! the unquenched 
desire I mean, not without the consciousness of having earnestly endeavoured 
to kindle young minds, and to guard them against the temptations of sinners, 
by showing that the scheme of Christianity, as taught in the Liturgy and 
Homilies of our Church, though not discoverable by human reason, is yet 
in accordance with it; that link follows link by necessary consequence, that 
religion passes out of the ken of reason, only where the eye of reason has 
reached its own horizon ; and that faith is then but its continuation : even as 
the day softens away into the sweet twilight ; and twilight, hushed and 
breathless, steals into the darkness. It is night, sacred night ; the upraised 
eye views only the starry heaven, which manifests itself alone ; and the out- 
ward beholding is fixed on the sparks twinkling on the awful depth, through 
suns of other worlds, only to preserve the soul steady and collected in its 
pure Act of inward adoration to the Great I am, and to the filial word that 
reaffirmeth it from eternity to eternity, whose choral echo is the universe. 

GEO MONO AOSA 



428 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

to have expressed some disappointment at the omission of his name 
in the Imaginary Conversations. Mr. Landor writing to him from 
Florence, February 5th, 1825, spoke with enthusiastic praise of his 
powers of argument and eloquence. " My first exercises on these," 
he said, " were under his eye and guidance, corrected by his admi- 
ration, and animated by his applause. His house, his library, his 
heart, were always open to me ; and among my few friendships, 
of which, indeed, partly by fortune, and partly by choice, I have 
certainly had fewer than any man, I shall remember his to the 
last hour of my existence with tender gratitude." When this 
letter arrived, Parr was lying on the bed of death. He had 
written, in his copy of Gebir, " The Avork of a scholar and a 
poet." One very beautiful' passage in the poem has been imitated 
by Mr. Wordsworth, who, in r _this instance, has not equalled his 
predecessor : 

And I have sinuous shells of pearly hue : 
Shake one, and it awakens, then apply 
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 

Landor. 
* * * * * I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell ; 
To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 
Were heard — sonorous cadences ; whereby 
To his belief, the monitor express'd 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 

The Excursion. 
It would be difficult to find anything more characteristic of 
Mr. Landor than the following letter*. 

* " "What is it that Mr. Landor wants to make him a poet 1 His powers 
are certainly very considerable, but he seems to be totally deficient in that 
modifying faculty, which compresses several units into one whole. The 
truth is, he does not possess imagination in its highest,' form — that of stamping 
it piu neW uno. Hence his poems, taken as wholes, are unintelligible : you 
have eminences excessively bright, and all the ground around and between 
them in darkness. Besides which, he has never learned, with all his energy, 
to write simple and lucid English." — Coleridge. 



TO DR. PARR. 



429 



Dear Sir, 

Some people are going from Bath who will carry a few 
letters to my family, none of whom have more claims on my 
remembrance than you have. The printers at Oxford have 
published a poem of mine, and I desired they would send you 
a copy ; but I find that none have been transmitted to my 
brother Henry, who would receive them first, and who would 
enclose two or three lines which I wrote on the occasion. 
The Anti- Jacobin has assailed me with much virulence — I am 
a coward, and a profligate ; of the latter expression, as I know 
not the meaning of it, I shall be silent. The former is a plain 
intelligible word, and, if I discover the person who has made 
this application of it, I will give him some documents which 
shall enlighten his judgment at the expense of his skin. 
Could you imagine it ? You also are mentioned w T ith a pro- 
portionate share of insolence : let them pass. Who would 
stop a cloud that overshadows his garden? The cloud is 
transitory, — the garden blooms. Thank God ! I have a mind 
more alive to kindness than to contumely. The statue of 
Memnon is insensible to the sands that blow against it, but 
answers in a tender tone to the first touches of the sun. 
Come, come, let me descend from these clouds, and this 
romance, at which you will laugh most heartily, and quote 
in my favour the example of Mr. Lemuel Gulliver, who, 
when the Lilliputians climbed and crept over him, forebore 
that contention which a more equal or a more formidable 
enemy w^ould have aroused. 

Thoughts, alas ! how much more serious, how much more 
painful and more lasting, have been excited by a late event ! 
Poor Lamb ! poor Lamb ! poor little Elizabeth, and her divine 
mother ! Yes, death has proved the fact, and not the con- 
trary. For what is death ? a change of situation, an enlarge- 
nient of liberty, a privilege, a blessing, an apotheosis. What 
hours have I passed with this virtuous couple, never, never to 
return, or to produce their likeness in this world ! In vain 



430 MRS. HEMANS 

have I tried every species of amusement. Routs, plays, con- 
certs, and balls. Her image rises up everywhere before me. 
I sicken at the sight of beauty. Did not she treat me as a 
brother? Did she ever call me by more than one name? 
The sound of Walter was the sweetest of sounds. Pardon 
me, I will acknowledge it, she made me think myself a vir- 
tuous or a great man. Certainly, I never left her company 
but I was more happy, and more deserving of happiness. 
How perfect an example for every wife and mother. What 
purity — what affection ! Is it profane, or is it too much, to 
call such a woman an angel? The difference is, that she 
resided with us (shall I write it?) long, that she was con- 
stantly and universally seen, marked, admired; the other 
is sent down to very few, " at intervals and long between." 
Farewell. 



LETTER CXYI. 

Mrs. Hemans to a Friend. — A Visit to the Poet 
Wordsworth. 

Mrs. Hemans was born at Liverpool, September 25, 1794, and 
her poetical taste soon began to show itself in a passion for Shak- 
speare, whom she delighted to read among the boughs of an apple- 
tree in the garden. The inscription on the tablet to her memory 
records that " her character is best portrayed in her writings." 
Her talents ought not, perhaps, to be estimated by those forced 
fruits, which she scattered with so much profusion over the perio- 
dical press. Byron said that she was a poet, but too stilted and 
apostrophic, and quite wrong — a harsh but an accurate criticism. 
Her language is generally rich and musical, and her sentiments are 
arrayed in oriental splendour. Her pictures frequently contain 
objects of beauty, but coloured up to the exhibition-brilliancy. 
She loved Wordsworth, but she imitated Darwin. Some of her 
smaller poems, the Palm Tree, for example, are perfectly excellent, 
and breathe the spirit of genuine poetry. Her letters have the 
defects, without the graces, of her verse ; but the following 
account of a visit to the Poet of the Lakes possesses an intrinsic and 
independent interest. 



TO A FRIEND. 431 

Rydal Mount, June 22, 1830. 
You were very kind in writing to me so soon, and making 
tlie remembrance of my journey with you one of unmingled 
pleasure, by your assurance that all was well on your return. 
For myself, I can truly say, that my enjoyment of your 
society and kindness, and the lovely scenery by which we 
were surrounded, made those pleasant days seem as a little isle 
of sunshine in my life, to which I know that memory will again 
and again return. I felt very forlorn after you were gone from 

Ambleside: came and went without exciting a smile, 

ami my nervous fear, at the idea of presenting myself alone to 
Mr. Wordsworth, grew upon me so rapidly, that it was more 
than seven before I took the courage to leave the inn. I had, 
indeed, little cause for such trepidation. I was driven to a 
lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of 
roses and ivy ; and a most benignant-looking old man greeted 
me in the porch ; this was Mr. Wordsworth himself; and 
when I tell you, that, having rather a large party of visiters 
in the house, he led me to a room apart from them, and 
brought in his family by degrees, I am sure that little trait 
will give you an idea of considerate kindness which you will 
both like and appreciate. In half an hour, I felt myself as 
much at ease with him as I had been with Sir Walter 
Scott in half a day. I laughed to find myself saying on 
the occasion of some little domestic occurrence, " Mr. Words- 
worth, how could you be so giddy V He has, undeniably, a 
lurking love of mischief, and would not, I think, be half so 

safely intrusted with the tied-up bag of winds as Mr. 

insisted that Dr. Channing might be. There is almost a patri- 
archal simplicity, and an absence of all pretension, about him, 

which I know you would like : all is free, — unstudied, * 

" the river winding at its own sweet will." In his manner and 
conversation there is more of impulse than I had expected, but, 
in other respects, I see much that I should look for in the poet 
of meditative life ; frequently fiis head droops, his eyes half- 



432 



MRS. HEMANS TO A FRIEND. 



close, and he seems buried in great depths of thought. I 
have passed a delightful morning to-day, in walking with 
him about his own richly-shaded grounds, and hearing him 
speak of the old English writers, particularly Spenser, whom 
he loves, as he himself expresses it, for his " earnestness and 
devotedness." It is an immeasurable transition from Spenser 
to ; but I have been so much amused by Mr. Words- 
worth's characterizing her as " a tumultuous young woman," 
that I cannot forbear transcribing the expression for the use of 
my friends. I must not forget to tell you, that he not only 
admired our exploit in crossing the Ulverston sands as a deed 
of " derring do," but a decided proof of taste ; the lake 
scenery, he says, is never seen to such advantage as after the 
passage of what he calls its majestic barrier. Let me write 
out the passage from Haco, before I quite exhaust my paper ; 
this was certainly the meaning we both agreed upon, though 
I did not recollect your translation sufficiently well to arrange 
the versification accordingly. 

Where is the noble game that will not seek 
A perilous covert, e'en from wildest rocks, 
In his sore need, when fast the hunters' train 
Press on his panting flight. 



LETTER CXVII. 
The Last Letter of L. E. L. — An African Home. 

They who have enjoyed the society of the gifted individual, 
whose parting words afford so touching a termination to the present 
volume, will recognise in her last letter, the same joyous and 
playful temper which lent so pleasing a charm to her conversation. 
This is neither the place, nor the season, for any estimate of her 
talents, or her poetry ; yet even the hostility of criticism cannot 
refuse to acknowledge the fertility of her fancy, the vivacity of her 
wit, or the buoyancy of her disposition. But the ImproVvisatrice is 
silent, and her lute is broken. Her resting-place is washed by 



THE LAST LETTER OF L. E. L. 433 

distant waters ; and no poetical mourner, gliding along those me- 
lancholy shores, 

Will oft suspend the dashing oar, 
To bid her gentle spirit rest. 

But she will live in the hearts of her friends, and some of her notes, 
at least, will continue to linger upon the ear of friendship and of 
taste. 



Cape Coast Castle, October 15, 1838. 
My dearest Marie, 

I cannot but write to you a brief account how I enact 
the part of a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I must say, in 
itself, the place is infinitely superior to all I ever dreamed of. 
The castle is a fine building, — the rooms excellent. I do not 
suffer from heat ; insects there are few or none, and I am in 
excellent health. The solitude, except an occasional dinner, 
is absolute ; from seven in the morning till seven, when we 
dine, I never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any one else. We 
were welcomed by a series of dinners, which I am glad are 
over, for it is very awkward to be the only lady. Still, the 
great kindness with which I have been treated, "and the very 
pleasant manners of many of the gentlemen, make me feel it 
as little as possible. Last week we had a visit from Captain 
Castle, of the Pylades. His story is very melancholy. He 
was married, six months before he left England, to one of the 
beautiful Miss Hills, Sir John Hill's daughter, and she died 
just as he received orders to return home. We also had a 
visit from Colonel Bosch, the Dutch governor, a most gentle- 
man-like man. I have not yet felt the want of society the 
least : I do not wish to form new friends, and never does a 
day pass without thinking most affectionately of m-y old ones. 
On three sides we are surrounded by the sea. I like the per- 
petual dash on the rocks; one wave comes up after another, 
and is for ever dashed in pieces, like human hopes, that can 
only swell to be disappointed ; as we advance, up springs the 



434 THE LAST LETTER OF L. E. L. 

shining froth of love or hope, "a moment white and gone for 
ever." The land-view, with its cocoa and palm-trees, is very- 
striking; it is like a scene in the Arabian Nights. Of a 
night, the beauty is very remarkable : the sea is of a silvery 
purple, and the moon deserves all that has been said in her 
favour. I have only once been out of the fort by day-light, 
and then was delighted. The salt-lakes were first dyed a 
deep crimson by the setting sun, and as we returned they 
seemed a faint violet in the twilight, just broken by a thou- 
sand stars, while before us was the red beacon light. The 
chance of sending this letter is a very sudden one, or I should 
have ventured to write to General Fagen, to whom I beg the 
very kindest regards. Dearest, do not forget me. Pray write 
to me, " Mrs. George Maclean, Cape Coast Castle ; care of 
Messrs. Forster and Smith, 5, New City Chambers, Bishops- 
gate-street." Write about yourself; nothing else half so much 
interests 

Your affectionate 

L. E. Maclean. 



435 



ADDITIONAL NOTES. 



Pao-e 21. 



See an Article upon Goldsmith and Gray, contributed by the 
present writer, in the second number of the Church of England 
Quarter!}/ Review. 



Page 38. — Languet. 
His letters to Sir Philip Sidney, were published at Frankfort, 
in 1632. Brooke's account of his introduction to Sidney, is very 
curious. Instance that reverend Languet, mentioned for honour's 
sake in " Sir Philip's Arcadia," learned usque ad miraculum ; wise 
by the conjunction of practice in the .world, with that well- 
grounded theory of books, and much valued at home ; till this 
great worth (even in a gentleman's fortune) being discovered for a 
dangerous instrument against Rome and Spain, by some sparkles 
got light enough, rather to seek employment elsewhere, than to 
tarry and be driven out of his own country with disparagement. 
In Frankfort he settles, is entertained agent for the Duke of 
Saxony, and an under-hand minister for his own king. Lodged he 
was in Wechel's house, the printer of Frankfort, where Sir Philip 
in travel chancing likewise to become a guest, this ingenuous old 
man's fulness of knowledge travelling as much to be delivered 
from abundance by teaching, as Sir Philip's rich nature and 
industry thirsted to be taught, and manured ; this harmony of an 
humble hearer to an excellent teacher, so equally fitted them 
both, as out of a natural descent both in love and plenty, the elder 
grew taken in with a net of his own thread, and the younger 
taught to lift up himself by a thread of the same spinning, — so 
as this reverend Languet orderly sequestered from his several 
functions under a mighty king, and Saxony, the greatest prince in 
Germany, became a nurse of knowledge to this hopeful young 
gentleman, and without any other line or motive, than this 
sympathy of affection, accompanied him in the whole course of his 
three years' travel." — Brooke's Life of Sidney, ed. Biydges, vol. i. 
p. 6, 7. 



436 ADDITIONAL NOTES. 

Page 59. — He that is able to inform young men, S)C 

In this description of the offices and functions of a good poet, our 
author, as Whalley observes, "seems to have had his eye on 
different passages in Horace. Here he alludes to the Epistle to 
Augustus : 

Recte facta refert orientis tempora notis, 
Instruit exemplis, inopem solatur et aegrum, etc. 

A little below, to the art of poetry, v. 396 : 

fuit hsec sapientia quondam. 

Publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis, etc. 

The sentence immediately preceding this, is taken almost literally 
from Strabo. Lib. i. p. 33. — Gifford. 

To which I shall take the occasion elsewhere to speak, &c. 

In the quarto, Jonson was somewhat more particular, — " to 
which, upon my next opportunity toward the examining and 
digesting of my Notes, I shall speak more wealthily, and pay the 
world a debt." He alludes to the promise in his former play, of 
publishing a translation of the Art of Poetry. The "notes" were 
written, and, as I have already observed, burnt in the fire which 
destroyed his library. — Gifford. 



Page 85—86. 

Johnson thought favourably of the critical talents of Dennis, 
and expressed a wish that his prose works might be reprinted. Sir 
Walter Scott says, very pleasantly, that Dennis retained consider- 
able reputation for critical acumen, until he attempted to illustrate 
his precepts by his own compositions. 

^ymer's Short View of Tragedy is a very amusing treatise. 
Scott supposes this letter to have been written in 1693-4. 



Page 115. 



" I sometimes compare my own life with that of Steele, (yet, 
oh, how unlike ! ) led to this from having myself also borne arms, 
and written private after my name, or rather another name ; for 
being at a loss when suddenly asked my name, I answered Cum- 



ADDITIONAL NOTES. 437 

herbaclc; and, verily, my habits were so little equestrian, that my 
horse, I doubt not, was of that opinion. Of Steele, also, it might 
in one sense, at least, have been said, 

Lingering he raised his latch at eve, 

Though tired in heart and limb ; 
He loved no other place, and yet 

Home was no home to him*. 



Page 127. 



" Whether De Foe," says Mr. Wilson, " passed his latter days in 
the midst of his family, or in an obscure lodging by himself,' can 
now be only matter of conjecture. After his death, his widow, 
Susannah, continued to reside at Stoke Newington ; and as his 
daughters were afterwards in independent circumstances, it may be 
presumed that they succeeded in recovering their property. Mr. 
Baker, who appears to have been a kind-hearted man, probably 
stood their friend upon the occasion." — Memoirs of DeFoe, vol. iii. 
p. 610. 



Page 211. 

But Johnson did not always inculcate this regularity of appli- 
cation : — " Idleness," he said, " is a disease which must be com- 
bated ; but I would not advise a rigid adherence to a particular 
plan of study. I myself have never persisted in any plan for two 
days together. A man ought to read just as inclination leads him ; 
for what he reads as a task will do him little good. A young man 
should read five hours a-day, and so may acquire a great deal of 
knowledge." He advised an Oxford friend, Mr. G. Strahan, to 
devote four hours a-day to Greek, and the rest to Latin or English. 



Pase 225. 



The verses quoted by Lord Chatham form part of the conclu- 
sion of the second satire of Persius : — 

Quid damus est superis, de magna quod dare lance 
Non possit magni Messalae lippa propago : 

* Letters and Conversations, vol. i. p. 189. 



438 ADDITIONAL NOTES. 

Composition jus, fasque animi, sanctosque recessus 
Mentis, incoctum generoso pectus honesto : 
Hsec ceclo, ut admoveam templis, et farre litabo. 

Let me give that, which from their golden pot 
Messala's proud and blear-eyed race could not : 
To the just gods let me present a mind, 
Which civil and religious duties bind, 
A guileless heart, which no dark secrets knows, 
But with the generous love of virtue glows. 
Such be the presents, such the gifts I make, 
With them I sacrifice a wheaten cake. 

Drummond. 



Page 230. 



Some interesting, though superficial notices of the numerous 
searchers after magical power, may be seen in Godwin's Lives of 
the Necromancers. " In proportion," he says, " as the pursuit or 
transmutation (of metals), and the search after the elixir of im- 
mortality grew into vogue, the adepts became desirous of investing 
them with the venerable garb of antiquity. They endeavoured to 
carry up .the study to the time of Solomon ; and there were not 
wanting some who imputed it to the first father of mankind. 
They were desirous to track its footsteps in ancient Egypt; and 
they found a mythological representation of it in the expedition 
of Jason after the golden fleece, and in the caldron by which 
Medea restored the father of Jason to his original youth. But, as 
has already been said, the first unquestionable mention of the sub- 
ject is to be referred to the time of Diocletian. From that period 
traces of the studies of the alchemists, from time to time, regularly 
discover themselves." — p. 278. — See Sir Walter Scott's Note on 
Gabalis' Works of Dry den, vol. xviii. p. 166. 



Page 313. 

This little essay, by the Master of Caius College, Cambridge, 
was printed, but not published ; a very considerable portion of it, 
however, was inserted by Mr. Todd, with the writer's permission, 
in his Illustrations of Gower and Chaucer together with some 



ADDITIONAL NOTES. 439 

additional remarks of his own. — See Illustrations of the Lives and 
Writings of Grower and Chaucer, pp. 283 — 292. 



Page 339. 



Heber subsequently changed his opinion. Writing to his bro- 
ther, he says, " In my last letter, I said something disrespectful of 
the beauty of the Moscow ladies, which, now that I have got more 
into their society, I must contradict ; it is the only place since I left 
England where I have met with a really interesting female society, 
and, at the assemblies of the nobles, we see many faces that might 
be supposed to belong to Lancashire or Cheshire. 



Pao-e 387. 



The passage in Pepys is the following : — " 1677-8, January 1st. 
— Dined with my Lord Crewe, with whom was Mr. Browne, clerk 
of the House of Lords, and Sir John Crewe. Here was mighty 
good discourse, as there is always ; and, among other things, my 
Lord Crewe did turn to a place in the Life of Sir Philip Sidney, 
wrote by Sir Fulke Greville, which do foretell the present con- 
dition of this nation, in relation to the Dutch, to the very degree 
of a prophecy." And again, on the following day, — " To West- 
minster Hall, and there stayed a little ; and then home, and by the 
way I did find with difficulty the Life of Sir- Philip Sidney. And 
the bookseller told me that he had sold four within this week or 
two, which is more than ever he sold in all his life of them; and 
he could not imagine what should be the reason of it ; but I sup- 
pose it is from the same reason of people's observing of this part 
therein, touching his prophesying our present condition here in 
England, relating to the Dutch, which is very remarkable." 



Page 389. 

Dr. Butler of Shrewsbury gives a most flaming account of 
Lucien Buonaparte's poem, which he has read, which he sets on 
the same parallel with Ariosto! — Bishop Heber to J. Wilmot, Esq. 
Dec. 5. 1812. 



440 ADDITIONAL NOTES. 

Page 392. 

Sir Philip Sidney, in his Reply to Leicester's Commonwealth, 
thus expresses himself respecting his Dudley descent : — " I am a 
Dudley in blood, the duke's daughter's son ; and I do acknowledge, 
though in all "truth I may justly affirm, that I am by my father's 
side, of ancient and always well-esteemed and well-matched gentry ; 
I do acknowledge, I say, that my chiefest honour is to be a Dudley, 
and truly I am glad to have cause to set forth the nobility of that 
blood whereof I am descended." 



THE END. 



London:— John "W. Parker St. Martin's Lane. 






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